UtSB  LIBRARY 


-2  64       1'      / 


REVERIES 


or 


A     BACHELOR: 


OB 


A  BOOK  OF  THE  HEART. 


Bn  3k.  itlarud. 


It  a  wnrth  tke  labor— taitk  Plotin'M-to  coni'der  veil  of  Last,  whether  it  Tie  a 

God,  or  a  Divell,  or  ]«jssiun  of  the  minde,  or  jiurilj  Ind,  partly  divell,  partly  pattion. 

BUUTON'S  ANATUHV. 


A.     NEW      EDITION. 


NEW  YORK: 
SCRIBNER,    ARMSTRONG    &    CO., 

654    BROADWAY. 
1873. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

CHARLES    SCKIBNER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for 
the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO 

ONE  AT  HOME, 

IN   WHOM   ARE    MET   SO    MANY    OF   THE 
GRACES     AND    THE     VIRTUES,    OF     WHICH     AS     BACHELOR 

/   DREAMED, 

THIS   NEW   EDITION'   OF   MY    BOOK 
IS   DEDICATED. 


A   NEW  PREFACE. 


MY  publisher  has  written  me  that  the  old 
type  of  this  hook  of  the  Reveries  are 
so  far  worn  and  battered,  that  they  will  bear 
no  farther  usage ;  and  in  view  of  a  new  edi- 
tion, he  asks  for  such  revision  of  the  text 
as  I  may  deem  judicious,  and  for  a  few  lines 
in  Avay  of  preface. 

I  began  the  revision :  I  scored  out  word 
after  word ;  presently  I  came  to  the  scoring 
out  of  paragraphs ;  and  before  I  had  done,  I 
was  making  my  scores  by  the  page. 

It  would  never  do :  it  might  be  the  better, 
but  it  would  not  be  the  same.  I  cannot  lop 
away  those  twelve,  swift,  changeful  years  that 
are  gone. 

Middle-age   does   not    look   on   life,  like 

youth  ;    we  cannot  make  it.     And  why  mix 
1* 


vi  A   NEW  PREFACE. 

the  years  and  the  thoughts  ?  Let  the  young 
carry  their  own  burdens,  and  banner  ;  and  we 
— ours. 

I  have  determined  not  to  touch  the  book. 
A  race  has  grown  up  which  may  welcome  its 
youngness,  and  find  a  spirit  or  a  sentiment  in 
it,  that  cleaves  to  them,  and  cheers  them,  and 
is  true.  I  hope  they  will. 

For  me  those  young  years  are  gone.  I 
cannot  go  back  to  that  tide.  I  hear  the  rush 
of  it  in  quiet  hours,  like  the  murmur  of  lost 
music.  The  companions  who  discussed  with 
me  these  little  fantasies,  as  they  came  reeking 
from  the  press, — and  suggested  how  I  might 
have  mended  matters,  by  throwing  in  a 
new  light  here,  or  deepening  the  shadows 
there, — are  no  longer  within  ear-shot.  If 
living,  they  are  widely  scattered ; — heads  of 
young  families,  may  be,  who  will  bring  now 
to  the  re-reading  of  passages  they  thought  too 
sombre,  the  light  of  such  bitter  experience, 
as, — ten  years  since — neither  they,  nor  I,  had 
fathomed.  Others  are  dapper  elderly  bache- 
lors,— coquetting  with  llie  world  iu  llio 


A   SEW  PREFACE.  vii 

world's  great  cities, — brisk  in  their  step, — 
coaxing  all  the  features  of  youth  to  stay  by 
them, — brushing  their  hair  with  needless,  and 
nervous  frequency  over  the  growing  spot  of 
baldness, — perversely  reckoning  themselves 
still,  proper  mates  for  girlhood, — dreaming 
yet  (as  we  once  dreamed  together)  of  an  Ely- 
sium in  store,  and  of  a  fairy  future,  where 
only  roses  shall  bloom. 

The  houses  where  I  was  accustomed  to 
linger,  show  other  faces  at  the  windows ; 
bright  and  cheery  faces,  it  is  true ;  but  they 
are  looking  over  at  a  young  fellow,  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  way. 

The  children  who  sat  for  my  pictures,  are 
grown  :  the  boys  I  watched  at  their  game  of 
taw,  and  who  clapped  their  hands  gleefully,  at 
a  good  shot, — are  buttoned  into  natty  blue 
frocks,  and  wear  little  lace-bordered  bands 
upon  their  shoulders  :  and  over  and  over,  as  I 
read  my  morning  paper,  I  am  brought  to  sud- 
den pause,  and  a  strange  electric  current 
thrills  me,  as  I  come  upon  their  boy-names, 
printed  in  the  dead-roll  of  the  war. 


viii  A  NEW  PREFACE. 

The  girls  who  wore  the  charming  white 
pinafores,  and  a  wild  tangle  of  flaxen  curls, 
have  now  netted  up  all  those  clustering  tresses 
into  a  stately  Pompadour  head-dress;  and 
they  rustle  past  me  in  silks,  and  do  not  know 
me. 

The  elderly  friends  who  cheered  me  with 
kindly  expressions  of  look  and  tongue — I  am 
compelled  to  say — now  trip  in  their  speech ; 
and  I  observe  a  little  morocco  case  at  their 
elbows — for  eye-glasses. 

And  as  they  put  them  on,  to  read  what  I 
may  be  saying  now,  let  them  keep  their  old 
charity,  and  think  as  well  of  me  as  they  can. 

EDGEWOOD,  1863. 


PREFA  CE. 


r  I  ^HIS  book  is  neither  more,  nor  less  than  it  pre- 
_l_  tends  to  be ;  it  is  a  collection  of  those  float- 
ing Reveries  which  have,  from  time  to  time,  drifted 
across  my  brain.  I  never  yet  met  with  a  bach- 
elor who  had  not  his  share  of  just  such  floating 
visions ;  and  the  only  difference  between  us  lies  in 
the  fact,  that  I  have  tossed  them  from  me  in  the 
shape  of  a  Book. 

If  they  had  been  worked  over  with  more  unity 
of  design,  I  dare  say  I  might  have  made  a  respect- 
able novel ;  as  it  is,  I  have  chosen  the  honester  way 
of  setting  them  down  as  they  came  seething  from 
my  thought,  with  all  their  crudities  and  contrasts, 
uncovered. 


x-  PREFACE. 

As  for  the  truth  that  is  in  them,  the  world  ma/ 
believe  what  it  likes ;  for  having  written  to  humor 
the  world,  it  would  be  hard,  if  I  should  curtail 
any  of  its  privileges  of  judgment.  I  should  think 
there  was  as  much  truth  in  them,  as  in  most 
Reveries. 

The  first  story  of  the  book  has  already  had  some 
publicity  ;  and  the  criticisms  upon  it  have  amused, 
and  pleased  me.  One  honest  journalist  avows 
that  it  could  never  have  been  written  by  a  bach- 
elor. I  thank  him  for  thinking  so  well  of  me  ;  and 
heartily  wish  that  his  thought  were  as  true,  as  it  is 
kind. 

Yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  bachelors  are 
the  only  safe,  and  secure  observers  of  all  the  phases 
of  married  life.  The  rest  of  the  world  have  their 
hobbies ;  and  by  law,  as  well  as  by  immemorial 
custom,  are  reckoned  unfair  witnesses  in  everything 
relating  to  their  matrimonial  affairs. 

Perhaps  I  ought  however  to  make  an  exception 
in  favor  of  spinsters,  who  like  us,  are  independent 
spectators,  and  possess  just  that  kind  of  indifference 
to  the  marital  state,  which  makes  them  intrepid  in 
their  observations,  and  very  desirable  for — author? 
ities. 


PREFACE.  xj 

As  for  the  style  of  the  book,  I  have  nothing  to 
say  for  it,  except  to  refer  to  my  title.  These  are 
not  sermons,  nor  essays,  nor  criticisms ; — they  are 
only  Reveries.  And  if  the  reader  should  stumble 
upon  occasional  magniloquence,  or  be  worried  with 
a  little  too  much  of  sentiment,  pray,  let  him  re- 
member,— that  I  am  dreaming. 

But  while  I  say  this,  in  the  hope  of  nicking  off 
the  wiry  edge  of  my  reader's  judgment,  I  shall  yet 
stand  up  boldly  for  the  general  tone,  and  character 
of  the  book.  If  there  is  bad  feeling  in  it,  or  insin- 
cerity, or  shallow  sentiment,  or  any  foolish  depth 
of  affection  betrayed, — I  am  responsible  ;  and  the 
critics  may  expose  it  to  their  heart's  content. 

I  have  moreover  a  kindly  feeling  for  these  Rev- 
eries, from  their  very  private  character ;  they  consist 
mainly  of  just  such  whimseys,  and  reflections,  as  a 
great  many  brother  bachelors  are  apt  to  indulge  in, 
but  which  they  are  too  cautious,  or  too  prudent  to 
lay  before  the  world.  As  I  have  in  this  matter, 
shown  a  frankness,  and  naivete  which  are  unusual, 
I  shall  ask  a  corresponding  frankness  in  my  reader , 
and  I  can  assure  him  safely  that  this  is  eminently 
one  of  those  books  which  were  "  never  intended  for 
publication." 


Xii  PREFACE. 

In  the  hope  that  this  plain  avowal  may  quicken 
the  reader's  charity,  and  screen  me  from  cruel 
judgment, 

I  remain,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

IK  MARVEL. 

YORK,  Nov.  1850. 


CONTENTS. 


FIRST  REVERIE. 

OVEE  A  WOOD  FIRE, 17 

I.  SMOKE,  SIGNIFYING  DOUBT,            ,          .          .  .    21 

II.  BLAZE,  SIGNIFYING  CHEER,  ....  80 
IIL  ASHES,  SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION,    .          .          .  87 

SECOND   REVERIE. 

BY  A  CITY  GRATE, 61 

I.  SEA-COAL, 68 

II.  ANTHRACITE,    ......  75 

THIRD   REVERIE. 

OVER  HIS  CIGAR, 93 

I.  LlOIlTED   WITH   A    COAL,          .                .                .                .  9T 

II.  LIGHTED  WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPEB,          .          .  109 

III.  LIGIITEO  WJTII  A  MATCH,    .          .          .          .122 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

FOURTH   REVERIE. 
MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING,       .        .        .137 

I.  MORNING— WHICH  is  THE  PAST,     .          .          .      144 

SCHOOL  DAYS,       .  .  .  .  .153 

THE  SEA,     ......      163 

FATHER-LAND,       .....      170 

A  ROMAN  GIRL,    .          .          .          .          .179 

THE  APENNINES,    .          .          .          .          .188 

ENEICA,  ;          ....     195 

II.  NOON— WHICH  m  THE  PRESENT,     .          .          .      208 

EAKLT  FRIENDS,    .  .  .  .  .206 

SCHOOL  REVISITED,  .  .  .  .212 

COLLEGE,     ......      217 

BELLA'S  PACQUET,  .          .          .          .224 

ILL  EVENING— WHICH  is  THE  FUTURE,  •          .  233 

CARRY,         ......  237 

THE  LETTER,  .          .          «  244 

NEW  TRAVEL,       .          .          ...  250 

Bous, 281 


SMOKE,  FLAME,  AND  ASHES. 


OVER   A   WOOD   FIRE. 


I  HAVE  got  a  quiet  farmhouse  in  the  country, 
a  very  humble  place  to  be  sure,  tenanted  by 
a  worthy  enough  man,  of  the  old  New-England 
stamp,  where  I  sometimes  go  for  a  day  or  two 
in  the  winter,  to  look  over  the  farm-accounts,  and 
to  see  how  the  stock  is  thriving  on  the  winter's 
keep. 

One  siie  the  door,  as  you  enter  from  the  porch, 
is  a  little  parlor,  scarce  twelve  feet  by  ten,  with  a 
cosy  looking  fire-place — a  heavy  oak  floor — a  cou- 
ple of  arm  chairs  and  a  brown  table  with  carved 
lions'  feet.  Out  of  this  room  opens  a  little  cabinet, 
only  big  enough  for  a  broad  bachelor  bedstead, 
where  I  sleep  upon  feathers,  and  wake  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  my  eye  upon  a  saucy  colored,  lithographic 
print  of  some  fancy  "  Bessy." 

K  happens  to  be  the  only  house  in  the  world, 
i  f  whifh  I  am  Itonn-fiJe  owner;  and  I  take  a  vast 
8* 


13  BEVE1UES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

i!oal  of  comfort  in  treating  it  just  as  I  choose.  I 
manage  to  break  some  article  of  furniture,  almost 
every  time  I  pay  it  u  visit ;  and  if  I  cannot  open 
the  window  readily  of  a  morning,  to  breathe  the 
iVesh  air,  I  knock  out  a  pane  or  two  of  glass  with 
ray  boot.  I  lean  against  the  walls  in  a  very  old 
arm-chair  there  is  on  the  premises,  and  scarce  ever 
fail  to  worry  such  a  hole  in  the  plastering,  as 
would  set  me  down  for  a  round  charge  for  damages 
in  town,  or  make  a  prim  housewife  fret  herself  into 
a  raging  fever.  I  laugh  out  loud  with  myself,  in 
my  big  arm-chair,  when  I  think  that  I  am  neither 
afraid  of  one  nor  the  other. 

As  for  the  fire,  I  keep  the  little  hearth  so  hot, 
as  to  warm  half  the  cellar  below,  and  the  whole 
space  between  the  jams,  roars  for  hours  together, 
with  white  flame.  To  be  sure  the  windows  are  not 
very  tight,  between  broken  panes,  and  bad  joints, 
so  that  the  fire,  large  as  it  is,  is  by  no  means  an  ex- 
travagant comfort. 

As  night  approaches,  I  have  a  huge  pile  of  oak 
and  hickory  placed  beside  the  hearth ;  I  put  out 
the  tallow  candle  on  the  mantel,  (using  the  family 
snuffers,  with  one  leg  broke,) — then,  drawing  my 
chair  directly  in  front  of  the  blazing  wood,  and 
setting  one  foot  on  each  of  the  old  iron  fire-dogs, 
(until  they  grow  too  warm,)  I  dispose  myself  for  an 
evening  of  such  sober,  and  thoughtful  quiet ii'' 
I  believe,  on  my  soul,  that  very  few  of  my  fellow- 
laen  have  the  good  fortune  to  enjoy. 

3Iy  tenant  meantime,  in  the  other  room,  ! 


OVER  A  WOOD  FIRE.  19 

hear  now  and  then, — though  there  is  a  thick  stone 
chimney,  and  broad  entry  between, — multiplying 
contrivances  with  his  wife,  to  put  two  babies  to 
sleep.  This  occupies  them,  I  should  say,  usually 
an  hour ;  though  my  only  measure  of  time,  (for  I 
never  carry  a  watch  into  the  country,)  is  the  blaze 
of  my  fire.  By  ten,  or  thereabouts,  my  stock  of 
wood  is  nearly  exhausted ;  I  pile  upon  the  hot 
coals  what  remains,  and  sit  watching  how  it  kin- 
dles, and  blazes,  and  goes  out, — even  like  our  joys  I 
— and  then,  slip  by  the  light  of  the  embers  into  my 
bed,  where  I  luxuriate  in  such  sound,  and  healthful 
slumber,  as  only  such  rattling  window  frames,  aud 
country  air,  can  supply. 

But  to  return  :  the  other  evening — it  happened 
to  be  on  my  last  visit  to  my  farm-house — when  I 
had  exhausted  all  the  ordinary  rural  topics  of 
thought,  had  formed  all  sorts  of  conjectures  as  to 
the  income  of  the  year ;  had  planned  a  new  wall 
around  one  lot,  and  the  clearing  up  of  another, 
now  covered  with  patriarchal  wood  ;  and  wondered 
if  the  little  ricketty  house  would  not  be  after  all  a 
snug  enough  box,  to  live  and  die  in — I  fell  on  a 
sudden  into  such  an  unprecedented  line  of  thought, 
which  took  such  deep  hold  of  my  sympathies — 
sometimes  even  starting  tears — that  I  determined, 
the  next  day,  to  set  as  much  of  it  as  I  could  recal, 
on  paper. 

Something — it  may  have  been  the  home-looking 
blaze,  (I  am  a  bachelor  of — say  six  and  i 

ly  a  plaintive  cry  of  the  baby  in  my  tenant's 


20  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

room,  had  suggested  to  rne  the  thought  of— Mar- 
riage. 

I  piled  upon  the  heated  fire-dogs,  the  last  arm- 
full  of  my  wood  ;  and  now,  said  I,  bracing  myself 
courageously  between  the  arms  of  my  chair, — I'll 
not  flinch ; — I'll  pursue  the  thought  wherever  it 
leads,  though  it  lead  me  to  the  d — (I  am  apt  to  be 
hasty,) — at  least — continued  I,  softening, — until  my 
fire  is  out. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  at  first  showed  no  dis- 
position to  blaze.  It  smoked  furiously.  Smoke, 
thought  I,  always  goes  before  blaze ;  and  so  does 
doubt  go  before  decision :  and  my  Reverie,  from 
that  very  starting  point,  slipped  into  this  shape  : — 


Smoke — Signifying  Doubt. 

A  WIFE  ?— thought  I ;— yes,  a  wife  ! 
And  why  ? 

And  pray,  my  dear  sir,  why  not — why  ?  Why 
not  doubt ;  why  not  hesitate  ;  why  not  tremble  ? 

Does  a  man  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery — a  poor 
man,  whose  whole  earnings  go  in  to  secure  the 
ticket, — without  trembling,  hesitating,  and  doubt- 
ing ? 

Can  a  man  stake  his  bachelor  respectability,  his 
independence,  and  comfort,  upon  the  die  of  ab- 
sorbing, unchanging,  relentless  marriage,  without 
trembling  at  the  venture  ? 

Shall  a  man  who  has  been  free  to  chase  his 
fancies  over  the  wide  world,  without  let  or  hin- 
drance, shut  himself  up  to  marriage-ship,  within 
four  walls  called  Home,  that  are  to  claim  him,  his 
time,  his  trouble,  and  his  tears,  thenceforward. 


22  EEVER1ES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

forever  more,  without  doubts  thick,   and 
coming  as  Smoke  ? 

Shall  he  who  has  been  hitherto  a  mere  observer 
of  other  men's  cares  and  business — moving  off 
where  they  made  him  sick  of  heart,  approaching 
whenever  and  wherever  they  made  him  gleeful — 
shall  he  now  undertake  administration  of  just  such 
cares  and  business,  without  qualms  ?  Shall  lu>, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  but  a  nimble  succession 
of  escapes  from  trifling  difficulties,  now  broach 
without  doubtings — that  Matrimony,  where  if  di£ 
ficulty  beset  him,  there  is  no  escape  ?  Shall  this 
brain  of  mine,  careless-working,  never  tired  with 
idleness,  feeding  on  long  vagaries,  and  high, 
gigantic  castles,  dreaming  out  beatitudes  hour  by 
hour — turn  itself  at  length  to  such  dull  taskwork, 
as  thinking  out  a  livelihood  for  wife  and  children  ? 

Where  thenceforward  will  be  those  sunny 
dreams,  in  which  I  have  warmed  my  fancies,  and 
my  heart,  and  lighted  my  eye  with  crystal  ?  This 
very  marriage,  which  a  brilliant  working  imagina- 
tion has  invested  time  and  again  with  brightness, 
and  delight,  can  serve  no  longer  as  a  mine  for  teem- 
ing fancy :  all,  alas,  will  be  gone — reduced  to  the 
dull  standard  of  the  actual !  No  more  room  for 
intrepid  forays  of  imagination — no  more  gorgeous 
realm-making — all  will  be  over  ! 

Why  not,  I  thought,  go  on  dreaming  ? 

Can  any  wife  be  prettier  than  an  after  dinner 
fancy,  idle  and  yet  vivid,  can  paint  for  you  ?  Can 
any  children  make  less  noise,  than  the  little 


SMOKE-SIGXIFYIXG  DOUBT.  23 

cheeked  ones,  who  have  no  existence,  except  in  the 
omnium,  gatherum  of  your  own  brain  ?  Can  any 
housewife  be  more  unexceptionable  than  she  who 
goes  sweeping  daintily  the  cobwebs  that  gather  in 
your  dreams  ?  Can  any  domestic  larder  be  better 
stocked,  than  the  private  larder  of  your  head 
dozing  on  a  cushioned  chair-back  atr  Delmonico's  ? 
Can  any  family  purse  be  better  tilled  than  the  ex- 
ceeding plump  one,  you  dream  of,  after  reading 
such  pleasant  books  as  Munchausen,  or  Typee  ? 

But  if,  after  all,  it  must  be — duty,  or  what-not, 
making  provocation — what  then  ?  And  I  clapped 
iny  feet  hard  against  the  fire-dogs,  and  leaned  back, 
and  turned  my  face  to  the  ceiling,  as  much  as  to 
say  ; — And  where  on  earth,  then,  shall  a  poor  devil 
look  for  a  wife  ? 

Somebody  says,  Lyttleton  or  Shaftesbmy  I 
think,  that  "  marriages  would  be  happier  if  they 
were  all  arranged  by  the  Lord  Chancellor."  Un- 
fortunately, we  have  no  Lord  Chancellor  to  make 
this  commutation  of  our  misery. 

Shall  a  man  then  scour  the  country  on  a  mule's 
back,  like  Honest  Gil  Bias  of  Santillane ;  or  shall 
he  make  application  to  some  such  intervening  pro- 
vidence as  Madame  St.  Marc,  who,  as  I  see  by  the 
Presse,  manages  these  matters  to  one's  hand,  for 
some  five  per  cent,  on  the  fortunes  of  the  parties  ? 

I  have  trouted,  when  the  brook  was  so  low,  and 
the  sky  so  hot,  that  I  might  as  well  have  thrown 
my  fly  upon  the  turnpike  ;  and  I  have  hunted  hare 
at  noon,  and  wood-cock  in  snow-time — never 


24  EEVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

despairing,  scarce  doubting ;  bat  for  a  poor  hunter 
of  his  kind,  without  traps  or  snares,  or  any  aid  of 
police  or  constabulary,  to  traverse  the  world,  where 
are  swarming,  on  a  moderate  computation,  some 
three  hundred  and  odd  millions  of  unmarried 
women,  for  a  single  capture — irremediable,  un- 
changeable— and  yet  a  capture  which  by  strange 
metonymy,  not  laid  down  in  the  books,  is  very  apt 
to  turn  captor  into  captive,  and  make  game  of 
hunter — all  this,  surely,  surely  may  make  a  man 
shrug  with  doubt ! 

Then — again, — there  are  the  plaguey  wife's- 
relations.  Who  knows  how  many  third,  fourth,  or 
fifth  cousins  will  appear  at  careless  complimentary 
intervals,  long  after  you  had  settled  into  the  placid 
belief  that  all  congratulatory  visits  were  at  an  end  ? 
How  many  twisted  bended  brothers  will  be  putting 
in  their  advice,  as  a  friend  to  Peggy  f 

Eow  many  maiden  aunts  will  come  to  spend  a 
month  or  two  with  their  "  dear  Peggy,"  and  want 
to  know  every  tea-time,  "  if  she  isn't  a  dear  love  of 
a  wife  ? "  Then,  dear  father-in-law  will  beg,  (tak- 
ing dear  Peggy's  "hand  in  his.)  to  give  a  little 
wholesome  counsel ;  and  will  be  very  sure  to  advise 
just  the  contrary  of  what  you  had  determined  to 
undertake.  And  dear  mamma-in-law  must  set  her 
nose  into  Peggy's  cupboard,  and  insist  upon  having 
the  key  to  your  own  private  locker  in  the  wainscot. 

Then,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  bevy  of  dirty- 
nosed  nephews  who  come  to  spend  the  holydays, 
and  eat  up  your  East  India  sweetmeats ;  and  who 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  25 

are  forever  tramping  over  your  head,  or  raising  the 
old  Harry  below,  while  you  are  busy  with  your 
clients.  Last,  and  worst,  is  some  fidgety  old  uncle, 
forever  too  cold  or  too  hot,  who  vexes  you  with  his 
patronizing  airs,  and  impudently  kisses  his  little 
Peggy  1 

That  could  be  borne,  however :  for  per- 
haps he  has  promised  his  fortune  to  Peggy.  Peggy, 
then,  will  be  rich  : — (and  the  thought  made  me  rub 
my  shins,  which  were  now  getting  comfortably 
warm  upon  the  fire-dogs.)  Then,  she  will  be  for- 
ever talking  of  her  fortune  ;  and  pleasantly  remind- 
ing you  on  occasion  of  a  favorite  purchase, — how 
lucky  that  she  had  the  means  ;  and  dropping  hints 
about  economy ;  and  buying  very  extravagant 
Paisleys. 

She  will  annoy  you  by  looking  over  the  stock- 
list  at  breakfast  time  ;  and  mention  quite  carelessly 
to  your  clients,  that  she  is  interested  in  such,  or 
Buch  a  speculation. 

She  will  be  provokingly  silent  when  you  hint  to 
a  tradesman,  that  you  have  not  the  money  by  you, 
for  his  small  bill ; — in  short,  she  will  tear  the  life 
out  of  you,  making  you  pay  in  righteous  retribu- 
tion of  annoyance,  grief,  vexation,  shame,  and  sick- 
ness of  heart,  for  the  superlative  folly  of  "  marrying 
rich." 

But  if  not  rich,  then  poor.  Bah !  the 

thought  made  me  stir  the  coals ;  but  there  was  still 
no  blaze.  The  paltry  earnings  you  are  able  to 
wring  out  of  clients  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  will 

a 


26  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

now  be  all  our  income ;  you  will  be  pestered  for 
pin-money,  and  pestered  with  your  poor  wife's 
relations.  Ten  to  one,  she  will  stickle  about  taste 
— "  Sir  Visto's  " — and  want  to  make  this  so  pretty, 
and  that  so  charming,  if  she  only  had  the  means  ; 
and  is  sure  Paul  (a  kiss)  can't  deny  his  little  Peggy 
such  a  trifling  sum,  and  all  for  the  common  benefit. 

Then  she,  for  one,  means  that  lier  children  shan't 
go  a  begging  for  clothes, — and  another  pull  at  the 
purse.  Trust  a  poor  mother  to  dress  her  children 
in  finery ! 

Perhaps  she  is  ugly ; — not  noticeable  at  first ; 
but  growing  on  her,  and  (what  is  worse)  growing 
faster  on  you.  You  wonder  why  you  didn't  see 
that  vulgar  nose  long  ago  :  and  that  lip — it  is  very 
strange,  you  think,  that  you  ever  thought  it  pretty. 
And  then, — to  come  to  breakfast,  with  her  hair 
looking  as  it  does,  and  you,  not  so  much  as  daring 
to  say — "  Peggy,  do  brush  your  hair  !  "  Her  foot 
too — not  very  bad  when  decently  chawsee — but 
now  since  she's  married,  she  does  wear  such  infernal 
slippers  !  And  yet  for  all  this,  to  be  prigging  up 
for  an  hour,  when  any  of  my  old  chums  come  to 
dine  with  me  ! 

"  Bless  your  kind  hearts !  my  dear  fellows,"  said 
I,  thrusting  the  tongs  into  the  coals,  and  speaking 
out  loud,  as  if  my  voice  could  reach  from  Virginia 
to  Paris — "  not  married  yet ! " 

Perhaps  Peggy  is  pretty  enough — only  shrewish. 

No  matter  for  cold  cofiee  ; — you  should 

have  been  up  before. 


SMOKE-SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  27 

What  sad,  thin,  poorly  cooked  chops,  to  eat 
with  your  rolls ! 

She  thinks  they  are  very  good,  and  wonders 

how  you  can  set  such  an  example  to  your  children. 

The  butter  is  nauseating. 

She  has  no  other,  and  hopes  you'll  not  raise 

a  storm  about  butter  a  little  turned. — I  think  I  see 
myself —  ruminated  I  —  sitting  meekly  at  table, 
scarce  daring  to  lift  up  my  eyes,  utterly  fagged  out 
with  some  quarrel  of  yesterday,  choking  down  de- 
testably sour  muffins,  that  my  wife  thinks  are  "  de- 
licious " — slipping  in  dried  mouthfuls  of  burnt  ham 
off  the  side  of  my  fork  tines, — slipping  off  my  chair 
side- ways  at  the  end,  and  slipping  out  with  my  hat 
between  my  knees,  to  business,  and  never  feeling 
myself  a  competent,  sound-minded  man,  till  the  oak 
door  is  between  me  and  Peggy  ! 

— "  Ha,  ha, — not  yet !  "  said  I ;  and  in  so  ear- 
nest a  tone,  that  my  dog  started  to  his  feet — cocked 
his  eye  to  have  a  good  look  into  my  face — met  my 
smile  of  triumph  with  an  amiable  wag  of  the  tail, 
and  curled  up  again  in  the  corner. 

Again,  Peggy  is  rich  enough,  well  enough,  mild 
enough,  only  she  doesn't  care  a  fig  for  you.  She 
has  married  you  because  father,  or  grandfather 
thought  the  match  eligible,  and  because  she  didn't 
wish  to  disoblige  them.  Besides,  she  didn't  posi- 
tively hate  you,  and  thought  you  were  a  respecta- 
ble enough  young  person ; — she  has  told  you  so 
repeatedly  at  dinner.  She  wonders  you  like  to 
read  poetry ;  she  wishes  you  would  buy  her  a  good 


28  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

cook-book;  and  insists  upon  your  making  your 
will  at  the  birth  of  the  first  baby. 

She  thinks  Captain  So-and-So  a  splendid  look- 
ing fellow,  and  wishes  you  would  trim  up  a  little, 
were  it  only  for  appearance'  sake. 

You  need  not  hurry  up  from  the  ofiice  so  early 
at  night : — she,  bless  her  dear  heart  ! — does  not  feel 
lonely.  You  read  to  her  a  love  tale  ;  she  interrupts 
the  pathetic  parts  with  directions  to  her  seamstress. 
You  read  of  marriages  :  she  sighs,  and  asks  if  Cap- 
tain So-and-So  has  left  town !  She  hates  to  be 
mewed  up  in  a  cottage,  or  between  brick  walls ;  she 
does  so  love  the  Springs  ! 

But,  again,  Peggy  loves  you ; — at  least  she  swears 
it,  with  her  hand  on  the  Sorrows  of  Werter.  She 
has  pin-money  which  she  spends  for  the  Literary 
World,  and  the  Friends  in  Council.  She  is  not  bad 
looking,  save  a  bit  too  much  of  forehead ;  nor  is 
she  sluttish,  unless  a  neglige  till  three  o'clock,  and 
in  ink  stain  on  the  fore  finger  be  sluttish ; — but 
ihen  she  is  such  a  sad  blue  ! 

You  never  fancied  when  you  saw  her  buried  in 
a  three  volume  novel,  that  it  was  anything  more 
than  a  girlish  vagary  ;  and  when  she  quoted  Latin, 
you  thought  innocently,  that  she  had  a  capital 
memory  for  her  samplers. 

But  to  be  bored  eternally  about  Divine  Dante 
and  funny  Goldoni,  is  too  bad.  Your  copy  of 
Tasso,  a  treasure  print  of  1680,  is  all  bethumbed 
and  dogs-eared,  and  spotted  with  baby  gruel. 
Even  your  Seneca — an  Elzevir — is  all  sweaty  with 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  29 

handling.  She  adores  La  Fontaine,  reads  Balzac 
with  a  kind  of  artist-scowl,  and  will  not  let  Greek 
alone. 

You  hint  at  broken  rest  and  an  aching  head  at 
breakfast,  and  she  will  fling  you  a  scrap  of  Anthol- 
ogy— in  lieu  of  the  camphor  bottle — or  chant  the 
mat  mm,  of  tragic  chorus. 

The  nurse  is  getting  dinner ;  you  are  hold- 
ing the  baby ;  Peggy  is  reading  Bruyere. 

The  fire  smoked  thick  as  pitch,  and  puffed  out 
little  clouds  over  the  chimney  piece.  I  gave  the 
fore-stick  a  kick  at  the  thought  of  Peggy,  baby, 
and  Bruyere. 

Suddenly  the  flame  flickered  bluely  athwart 

the  smoke — caught  at  a  twig  below — rolled  round 
the  mossy  oak-stick — twined  among  the  crackling 
tree-limbs — mounted — lit  up  the  whole  body  of 
smoke,  and  blazed  out  cheerily  and  bright.  Doubt 
Vanished  with  Smoke,  and  Hope  began  with 
Flame. 


3* 


n. 

Blaze — Signifying  Cheer. 

I  PUSHED  my  chair  back ;  drew  up  another ; 
stretched  out  my  feet  cosily  upon  it,  rested  my 
elbows  on  the  chair  arms,  leaned  my  head  on  one 
hand,  and  looked  straight  into  the  leaping,  and 
dancing  flame. 

Love  is  a  flame — ruminated  I ;  and  (glanc- 
ing round  the  room)  how  a  flame  brightens  up  a 
man's  habitation. 

"  Carlo,"  said  I,  calling  up  my  dog  into  the 
light,  "  good  fellow,  Carlo ! "  and  I  patted  him 
kindly,  and  he  wagged  his  tail,  and  laid  his  nose 
across  my  knee,  and  looked  wistfully  up  in  my 
face  ;  then  strode  away, — turned  to  look  again,  and 
lay  down  to  sleep. 

"  Pho,  the  brute  ! "  said  I,  "  it  is  not  enough 
after  all,  to  like  a  dog." 

If  now  in  that  chair  yonder,  not  the  one 

your  feet  lie  upon,  but  the  other,  beside  you — closer 


BLAZE— SIGNIFYING   CHEER.  31 

yet — were  seated  a  sweet-faced  girl,  with  a  pretty 
little  foot  lying  out  upon  the  hearth — a  bit  of  lace 
running  round  the  swelling  throat — the  hair  parted 
to  a  charm  over  a  forehead  fair  as  any  of  your 
dreams ; — and  if  you  could  reach  an  arm  around 
that  chair  back,  without  fear  of  giving  offence,  and 
suffer  your  fingers  to  play  idly  with  those  curls  that 
escape  down  the  neck ;  and  if  you  could  clasp  with 
your  other  hand  those  little  white,  taper  fingers  of 
hers,  which  lie  so  temptingly  within  reach, — and 
so,  talk  softly  and  low  in  presence  of  the  blaze, 
while  the  hours  slip  without  knowledge,  and  the 
winter  winds  whistle  uncared  for; — if,  in  short, 
you  were  no  bachelor,  but  the  husband  of  some 
such  sweet  image — (dream,  call  it  rather,)  would  it 
not  be  far  pleasauter  than  this  cold  single  night- 
sitting — counting  the  sticks — reckoning  the  length 
of  the  blaze,  and  the  height  of  the  falling  snow  ? 

And  if,  some  or  all  of  those  wild  vagaries  that 
grow  on  your  fancy  at  such  an  hour,  you  could 
whisper  into  listening,  because  loving  ears — ears 
not  tired  with  listening,  because  it  is  you  who 
whisper — ears  ever  indulgent  because  eager  to 
praise ; — and  if  your  darkest  fancies  were  lit  up, 
not  merely  with  bright  wood  fire,  but  with  a  ring- 
ing laugh  of  that  sweet  face  turned  up  in  fond 
rebuke — how  far  better,  than  to  be  waxing  black, 
and  sour,  over  pestilential  humors — alone — your 
very  dog  asleep ! 

And  if  when  a  glowing  thought  comes  into 
your  brain,  quick  and  sudden,  you  could  tell  it  over 


32  BE  SERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

as  to  a  second  self,  to  that  sweet  creature,  who  is 
not  away,  because  she  loves  to  be  there  ;  and  if  you 
could  watch  the  thought  catching  that  girlish  mind, 
illuming  that  fair  brow,  sparkling  in  those  pleas- 
antest  of  eyes — how  far  better  than  to  feel  it  slum- 
bering, and  going  out,  heavy,  lifeless,  and  dead,  in, 
your  own  selfish  fancy.  And  if  a  generous  emotion 
steals  over  you — coming,  you  know  not  whither, 
would  there  not  be  a  richer  charm  in  lavishing  it  in 
caress,  or  endearing  word,  upon  that  fondest,  and 
most  dear  one,  than  in  patting  your  glossy  coated 
dog,  or  sinking  lonely  to  smiling  slumbers  ? 

How  would  not  benevolence  ripen  with  such 
monitor  to  task  it !  How  would  not  selfishness 
grow  faint  and  dull,  leaning  ever  to  that  second 
self,  which  is  the  loved  one  !  How  would  not  guile 
shiver,  and  grow  weak,  before  that  girl-brow,  and 
eye  of  innocence !  How  would  not  all  that  boy- 
hood prized  of  enthusiasm,  and  quick  blood,  and 
life,  renew  itself  in  such  presence  ! 

The  fire  was  getting  hotter,  and  I  moved  into 
the  middle  of  the  room.  The  shadows  the  flames 
made,  were  playing  like  fairy  forms  over  floor,  and 
wall,  and  ceiling. 

My  fancy  would  surely  quicken,  thought  I,  if 
such  being  were  in  attendance.  Surely  imagina- 
tion would  be  stronger,  and  purer,  if  it  could  have 
the  playful  fancies  of  dawning  womanhood  to  de- 
light it.  All  toil  would  be  torn  from  mind-labor, 
if  but  another  heart  grew  into  this  present  soul, 


BLAZE— SIGNIFYING  CHEER.  33 

quickening  it,  warming  it,  cheering  it,  bidding  it 
ever, — God  speed  1 

Her  face  would  make  a  halo,  rich  as  a  rainbow, 
atop  of  all  such  noisome  things,  as  we  lonely  souls 
call  trouble.  Her  smile  would  illumine  the  black- 
est of  crowding  cares ;  and  darkness  that  now  seats 
you  despondent,  in  your  solitary  chair  for  days 
together,  weaving  bitter  fancies,  dreaming  bitter 
dreams,  would  grow  light  and  thin,  and  spread, 
and  float  away, — chased  by  that  beloved  smile. 

Your  friend — poor  fellow ! — dies  : — never  mind, 
that  gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  as  she  steals  behind 
you,  telling  you  not  to  weep — it  is  worth  tea 
friends  1 

Your  sister,  sweet  one,  is  dead — buried.  The 
worms  are  busy  with  all  her  fairness.  How  it 
makes  you  think  earth  nothing,  but  a  spot  to  dig 
graves  upon  1 

It  is  more  :  she,  she  says,  will  be  a  sister ; 

and  the  waving  curls  as  she  leans  upon  your 
shoulder,  touch  your  cheek,  and  your  wet  eye  turns 

to  meet  those  other  eyes God  has  sent  his  angel, 

Burely  1 

Your  mother,  alas  for  it,  she  is  gone  !  Is  there 
any  bitterness  to  a  youth,  alone,  and  homeless,  like 
this! 

But  you  are  not  homeless  ;  you  are  not  alone  : 
she  is  there ; — her  tears  softening  yours,  her  smile 
lighting  yours,  her  grief  killing  yours ;  and  you  live 
again,  to  assuage  that  kind  sorrow  of  hers. 

Then — those    children,    rosy,   fair-haired;    no, 


34  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

they  do  not  disturb  you  with  their  prattle  now — • 
they  are  yours !  Toss  away  there  on  the  green- 
sward— never  mind  the  hyacinths,  the  snowdrops, 
the  violets,  if  BO  be  any  are  there  ;  the  perfume  of 
their  healthful  lips  is  worth  all  the  flowers  of  the 
world.  No  need  now  to  gather  wild  bouquets  to 
love,  and  cherish :  flower,  tree,  gun,  are  all  dead 
things ;  things  livelier  hold  your  soul. 

And  she,  the  mother,  sweetest  and  fairest  of  all, 
watching,  tending,  caressing,  loving,  till  your  own 
heart  grows  pained  with  tenderest  jealousy,  and 
cures  itself  with  loving. 

Tou  have  no  need  now  of  any  cold  lecture  to 
teach  thankfulness :  your  heart  is  full  of  it.  No 
need  now,  as  once,  of  bursting  blossoms,  of  trees 
taking  leaf,  and  greenness,  to  turn  thought  kindly, 
and  thankfully ;  for  ever,  beside  you,  there  is 
bloom,  and  ever  beside  you  there  is  fruit, — for 
which  eye,  heart,  and  soul  are  full  of  unknown,  and 
unspoken,  because  unspeakable,  thank-offering. 

And  if  sickness  catches  you,  binds  you,  lays  you 
down — no  lonely  moauings,  and  wicked  curses  at 
careless  stepping  nurses.  The  step  is  noiseless,  and 
yet  distinct  beside  you.  The  white  curtains  are 
drawn,  or  withdrawn  by  the  magic  of  that  other 
presence ;  and  the  soft,  cool  hand  is  upon  your 
brow. 

No  cold  comfortings  of  friend-watchers,  merely 
come  in  to  steal  a  word  away  from  that  outer  world 
which  is  pulling  at  their  skirts  ;  but,  ever,  the  sad, 


BLAZE— SIGNIFYING   CHEER.  35 

shaded  brow  of  her,  whose  lightest  sorrow  for 
your  sake  is  your  greatest  grief, — if  it  were  not  a 
greater  joy. 

The  blaze  was  leaping  light  and.  high,  and  the 
wood  falling  under  the  growing  heat. 

So,  continued  I,  this  heart  would  be  at 

length  itself ; — striving  with  everything  gross,  even 
now  as  it  clings  to  grossness,.  Love  would  make 
its  strength  native  and  progressive.  Earth's  cares 
would  fly.  Joys  would  double.  Susceptibilities  be 
quickened;  Love  master  itself;  and  having  made 
the  mastery,  stretch  onward,  and  upward  toward 
Infinitude. 

And  if  the  end  came,  and  sickness  brought  that 
follower — Great  Follower — which  sooner  or  later  is 
sure  to  come  after,  then  the  heart,  and  the  hand  of 
Love,  ever  near,  are  giving  to  your  tired  soul,  daily 
and  hourly,  lessons  of  that  love  which  consoles, 
which  triumphs,  which  circleth  all,  and  centereth 
in  all — Love  Infinite,  and  Divine  ! 

Kind  hands — none  but  Tiers — will  smooth  the 
hair  upon  your  brow  as  the  chill  grows  damp,  and 
heavy  on  it ;  and  her  fingers — none  but  hers — will  lie 
in  yours  as  the  wasted  flesh  stiffens,  and  hardens 
for  the  ground.  Her  tears, — you  could  feel  no 
others,  if  oceans  fell — will  warm  your  drooping 
features  once  more  to  life ;  once  more  your  eye 
lighted  in  joyous  triumph,  kindle  in  her  smile,  and 
then 

The  fire  fell  upon  the  hearth ;  the  blaze  gave 
a  last  leap — a  flicker — then  another — caught  a 


36  EEVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

little  remaining  twig — blazed  up — wavered — went 
out. 

There  was  nothing  but  a  bed  of  glowing  em- 
bers, over  which  the  white  ashes  gathered  fast.  I 
was  alone,  with  only  my  dog  for  company. 


III. 

Ashes — Signifying  Desolation. 

A  FTER  all,  thought  I,  ashes  follow  blaze,  in- 
JL\-  evitably  as  Death  follows  Life.  Misery 
treads  on  the  heels  of  Joy;  Anguish  rides  swift 
after  Pleasure. 

"  Come  to  me  again,  Carlo,"  said  I,  to  my  dog ; 
and  I  patted  him  fondly  once  more,  but  now  only 
by  the  light  of  the  dying  embers. 

It  is  very  little  pleasure  one  takes  in  fondling 
brute  favorites ;  but  it  is  a  pleasure  that  when  it 
passes,  leaves  no  void.  It  is  only  a  little  alleviat- 
ing redundance  in  your  solitary  heart-life,  which  if 
lost,  another  can  be  supplied. 

But  if  your  heart,  not  solitary — not  quieting  its 
humors  with  mere  love  of  chase,  or  dog — not  re- 
pressing year  after  year,  its  earnest  yearnings  after 
something  better,  and  more  spiritual, — has  fairly 
linked  itself  by  bonds  strong  as  life,  to  another 
heart — is  the  casting  off  easy,  then  ? 
4 


38  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Is  it  then  only  a  little  heart-redundancy  cut  off, 
Which  the  next  bright  sunset  will  fill  up  ? 

And  my  fancy,  as  it  had  painted  doubt  under 
the  smoke,  and  cheer  under  warmth  of  the  blaze,  so 
now  it  began  under  the  faint  light  of  the  smoulder- 
ing embers,  to  picture  heart-desolation. 

What  kind  congratulatory  letters,  hosts  of 

them,  coming  from  old  and  half-forgotten  friends, 
now  that  your  happiness  is  a  year,  or  two  years  old  1 

"  Beautiful." 

Aye  to  be  sure  beautiful ! 

"  Rich." 

Pho,  the  dawdler  !  how  little  he  knows  of 

heart-treasure,  who  speaks  of  wealth  to  a  man  who 
loves  his  wife,  as  a  wife  only  should  be  loved  1 

"  Young." 

Young  indeed ;  guileless  as  infancy ;  charm- 
ing as  the  morning. 

Ah,  these  letters  bear  a  sting :  they  bring  to 
mind,  with  new,  and  newer  freshness,  if  it  be  possi- 
ble, the  value  of  that,  which  you  tremble  lest  you 
lose. 

How  anxiously  you  watch  that  step — if  it  lose 
not  its  buoyancy ;  How  you  study  the  color  on  that 
cheek,  if  it  grow  not  fainter ;  How  you  tremble  at 
the  lustre  in  those  eyes,  if  it  be  not  the  lustre  of 
Death  ;  How  you  totter  under  the  weight  of  that 
muslin  sleeve — a  phantom  weight !  How  you  fear 
to  do  it,  and  yet  press  forward,  to  note  if  that 
breathing  be  quickened,  as  you  ascend  the  home- 
heights,  to  look  off  on  sunset  lighting  the  plain. 


ASHES-SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.         39 

Is  your  sleep,  quiet  sleep,  after  that  she  has 
whispered  to  you  her  fears,  and  in  the  same  breath 
— soft  as  a  sigh,  sharp  as  an  arrow — bid  you  bear 
it  bravely  ? 

Perhaps, — the  embers  were  now  glowing  fresher, 
a  little  kindling,  before  the  ashes — she  triumphs 
over  disease. 

But.  Poverty,  the  world's  almoner,  has  come  to 
you  with  ready,  spare  hand. 

Alone,  with  your  dog  living  on  bones,  and  you 
on  hope — kindling  each  morning,  dying  slowly 
each  night, — this  could  be  borne.  Philosophy 
would  bring  home  its  stores  to  the  lone-man. 
Money  is  not  in  his  hand,  but  Knowledge  is  in  his 
brain  !  and  from  that  brain  he  draws  out  faster,  as 
he  draws  slower  from  his  pocket.  He  remembers : 
and  on  remembrance  he  can  live  for  days,  and 
weeks.  The  garret,  if  a  garret  covers  him,  is  rich  in 
fancies.  The  rain  if  it  pelts,  pelts  only  him  used  to 
rain-peltings.  And  his  dog  crouches  not  in  dread, 
but  in  companionship.  His  crust  he  divides  with 
him,  and  laughs.  He  crowns  himself  with  glorious 
memories  of  Cervantes,  though  he  begs :  if  he 
nights  it  under  the  stars,  he  dreams  heaven-sent 
dreams  of  the  prisoned,  and  homeless  Galileo. 

He  hums  old  sonnets,  and  snatches  of  poor  Jon- 
son's  plays.  He  chants  Dryden's  odes,  and  dwells 
on  Otway's  rhyme.  He  reasons  with  Bolingbroke 
or  Diogenes,  as  the  humor  takes  him  ;  and  laughs 
at  the  world :  for  the  world,  thank  Heaven,  has  let 
him  alone  1 


40  EEVEE1ES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Keep  your  money,  old  misers,  and  your  places, 
old  princes, — the  world  is  mine  ! 

I  care  not,  Fortune,  -what  you  mo  deny. — 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace, 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky  , 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve, 
Let  health,  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I,  their  toys,  to  the  great  children,  leave, 
Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave  1 

But — if  not  alone  ? 

If  she  is  clinging  to  you  for  support,  for  consola- 
tion, for  home,  for  life — she,  reared  in  luxury  per- 
haps, is  faint  for  bread  ? 

Then,  the  iron  enters  the  soul ;  then  the  nights 
darken  under  any  sky  light.  Then  the  days  grow 
long,  even  in  the  solstice  of  winter. 

She  may  not  complain  ;  what  then  ? 

Will  your  heart  grow  strong,  if  the  strength  of 
her  love  can  dam  up  the  fountains  of  tears,  and 
the  tied  tongue  not  tell  of  bereavement  ?  Will  it 
solace  you  to  find  her  parting  the  poor  treasure  of 
food  you  have  stolen  for  her,  with  begging,  food- 
less  children  ? 

But  this  ill,  strong  hands,  and  Heaven's  help, 
will  put  down.  Wealth  again ;  Flowers  again ; 
Patrimonial  acres  again ;  Brightness  again.  But 
your  little  Bessy,  your  favorite  child  is  pining. 

Would  to  God  !  you  say  in  agony,  that  wealth 
could  bring  fulness  again  into  that  blanched  cheek, 
or  round  those  little  thin  lips  once  more  ;  but  it  can- 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.        41 

not.  Thinner  and  thinner  they  grow ;  plaintive 
and  more  plaintive  her  sweet  voice. 

"  Dear  Bessy  " — and  your  tones  tremble ;  you 
feel  that  she  is  on  the  edge  of  the  grave  ?  Can  you 
pluck  her  back  ?  Can  endearments  stay  her  ? 
Business  is  heavy,  away  from  the  loved  child; 
home  you  go,  to  fondle  while  yet  time  is  left — but 
this  time  you  are  too  late.  She  is  gone.  She  can- 
not hear  you  :  she  cannot  thank  you  for  the  violets 
you  put  within  her  stiff  white  hand. 

And  then — the  grassy  mound — the  cold  shadow 
of  head-stone ! 

The  wind,  growing  with  the  night,  is  rattling 
at  the  window  panes,  and  whistles  dismally.  I 
wipe  a  tear,  and  in  the  interval  of  my  Reverie, 
thank  God,  that  I  am  no  such  mourner. 

But  gaiety,  snail-footed,  creeps  back  to  the 
household.  All  is  bright  again  ; — 


-the  violet  bed  's  not  sweeter 


Than  the  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth. 

Her  lip  is  rich  and  full ;  her  cheek  delicate  as  a 
flower.  Her  frailty  doubles  your  love. 

And  the  little  one  she  clasps — frail  too — too 

frail :  the  boy  you  had  set  your  hopes  and  heart  on. 

You  have  watched  him  growing,  ever  prettier, 

ever  winning  more  and  more  upon  your  soul.     The 

love  you  bore  to  him  when  he  first  lisped  names — 

your  name  and  hers — has  doubled  in  strength  now 

that  he  asks  innocently  to  be  taught  of  this,  or 

4* 


42  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

that,  and  promises  you  by  that  quick  curiosity  that 
flashes  in  his  eye,  a  mind  full  of  intelligence. 

And  some  hair-breadth  escape  by  sea,  or  flood, 
that  he  perhaps  may  have  had — which  unstrung 
your  soul  to  such  tears,  as  you  pray  God  may  be 
spared  you  again — has  endeared  the  little  fellow  to 
your  heart,  a  thousand  fold. 

And,  now  with  his  pale  sister  in  the  grave,  all 
that  love  has  come  away  from  the  mound  where 
worms  feast,  and  centers  on  the  boy. 

How  you  watch  the  storms  lest  they  harm  him ! 
How  often  you  steal  to  his  bed  late  at  night,  and 
lay  your  hand  lightly  upon  the  brow,  where  the 
curls  cluster  thick,  rising  and  falling  with  the 
throbbing  temples,  and  watch,  for  minutes  together, 
the  little  lips  half  parted,  and  listen — your  ear  close 
to  them — if  the  breathing  be  regular  and  sweet ! 

But  the  day  comes — the  night  rather — when 
you  can  catch  no  breathing. 

Aye,  put  your  hair  away, — compose  yourself — 
listen  again. 

No,  there  is  nothing  ! 

Put  your  hand  now  to  his  brow — damp  indeed 
— but  not  with  healthful  night-sleep ;  it  is  not  your 
hand,  no,  do  not  deceive  yourself — it  is  your  loved 
boy's  forehead  that  is  so  cold  ;  and  your  loved  boy 
will  never  speak  to  you  again — never  play  again — 
he  is  dead ! 

Oh,  the  tears — the  tears ;  what  blessed  things 
are  tears  !  Never  fear  now  to  let  them  fall  on  his 
forehead,  or  his  lip,  lest  you  waken  him  ! — Clasp 


DESOLATION.        43 

him — clasp  him  harder — you  cannot  hurt,  you  can- 
not waken  him  !  Lay  him  down,  gently  or  not,  it 
is  the  same ;  he  is  stiff;  he  is  stark  and  cold. 

But  courage  is  elastic;  it  is  our  pride.  It  re- 
covers itself  easier,  thought  I,  than  these  embera 
will  get  into  blaze  again. 

But  courage,  and  patience,  and  faith,  and  hope 
have  their  limit.  Blessed  be  the  man  who  escapes 
such  trial  as  will  determine  limit  1 

To  a  lone  man  it  comes  not  near ;  for  how  can 
trial  take  hold  where  there  is  nothing  by  which  to 
try? 

A  funeral  ?  You  reason  with  philosophy.  A 
grave  yard  ?  You  read  Ilervey  and  muse  upon  the 
wall.  A  friend  dies  ?  You  sigh,  you  pat  your 
dog, — it  is  over.  Losses  ?  You  retrench — you 
light  your  pipe — it  is  forgotten.  Calumny  ?  You 
laugh — you  sleep. 

But  with  that  childless  wife  clinging  to  you  in 
love  and  sorrow — what  then  ? 

Can  you  take  down  Seneca  now,  and  coolly 
blow  the  dust  from  the  leaf-tops  ?  Can  you  crimp 
your  lip  with  Voltaire  ?  Can  you  smoke  idly,  your 
feet  dangling  with  the  ivies,  your  thoughts  all 
waving  fancies  upon  a  church-yard  wall — a  wall 
that  borders  the  grave  of  your  boy  ? 

Can  you  amuse  yourself  by  turning  stinging 
Martial  into  rhyme  ?  Can  you  pat  your  dog,  and 
seeing  him  wakeful  and  kind,  say,  "  it  is  enough  ? " 
Can  you  sneer  at  calumny,  and  sit  by  your  firo 
dozing  ? 


44  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Blessed,  thought  I  again,  is  the  man  who 
escapes  such  trial  as  will  measure  the  limit  of 
patience  and  the  limit  of  courage  ! 

But  the  trial  comes : — colder  and  colder  -were 
growing  the  embers. 

That  wife,  over  whom  your  love  broods,  is  fad- 
ing. Not  beauty  fading ; — that,  now  that  your 
heart  is  wrapped  in  her  being,  would  be  nothing. 

She  sees  with  quick  eye  your  dawning  appre- 
hension, and  she  tries  hard  to  make  that  step  of 
hers  elastic. 

Your  trials  and  your  loves  together  have  cen- 
tered your  affections.  They  are  not  now  as  wlu-n 
you  were  a  lone  man,  wide  spread  and  superficial. 
They  have  caught  from  domestic  attachments  a 
finer  tone  and  touch.  They  cannot  shoot  out  ten- 
drils into  barren  world-soil  and  suck  up  thence 
strengthening  nutriment.  They  have  grown  under 
the  forcing-glass  of  home-roof,  they  will  not  now 
bear  exposure. 

You  do  not  now  look  men  in  the  face  as  if  a 
heart-bond  was  linking  you — as  if  a  community  of 
feeling  lay  between.  There  is  a  heart-bond  that 
absorbs  all  others ;  there  is  a  community  that  mo- 
nopolizes your  feeling.  When  the  heart  lay  wide 
open,  before  it  had  grown  upon,  and  closed  around 
particular  objects,  it  could  take  strength  and  cheer, 
from  a  hundred  connections  that  now  seem  colder 
than  ice. 

And  now  those  particular  objects — alas  foi 
you  ! — are  failing. 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.        45 

What  anxiety  pursues  you  !  How  you  struggle 
to  fancy — there  is  no  danger ;  how  she  struggles  to 
persuade  you — there  is  no  danger  ! 

How  it  grates  now  on  your  ear — the  toil  and 
turmoil  of  the  city  !  It  was  music  when  you  were 
alone  ;  it  was  pleasant  even,  from  the  din  you  were 
elaborating  comforts  for  the  cherished  objects ; — 
when  you  had  such  sweet  escape  as  evening  drew 
on. 

Now  it  maddens  you  to  see  the  world  careless 
while  you  are  steeped  in  care.  They  hustle  you  in 
the  street ;  they  smile  at  you  across  the  table  ;  they 
bow  carelessly  over  the  way ;  they  do  not  know 
what  canker  is  at  your  heart. 

The  undertaker  comes  with  his  bill  for  the  dead 
boy's  funeral.  He  knows  your  grief;  he  is  respect- 
"ful.  You  bless  him  in  your  soul.  You  wish  the 
aughing  street-goers  were  all  undertakers. 

Your  eye  follows  the  physician  as  he  leaves  your 
bouse  :  is  he  wise,  you  ask  yourself;  is  he  prudent  ? 
is  he  the  best  ?  Did  he  never  fail — is  he  never  for- 
getful ? 

And  now  the  hand  that  touches  yours,  is  it  no 
thinner — no  whiter  than  yesterday  ?  Sunny  days 
come  when  she  revives ;  color  comes  back ;  she 
breathes  freer ;  she  picks  flowers ;  she  meets  you 
with  a  smile  :  hope  lives  again. 

But  the  next  day  of  storm  she  is  fallen.  She 
cannot  talk  even ;  she  presses  your  hand. 

You  hurry  away  from  business  before  your  time. 
What  matter  Tor  clients — who  is  to  reap  the  re- 


46  EEVERIES  OF  A  B ACHE  LOU. 

wards  ?  What  matter  for  fame — whose  eye  will  it 
brighten  ?  What  matter  for  riches — whose  is  the 
inheritance  ? 

You  find  her  propped  with  pillows ;  she  is  look- 
ing over  a  little  picture-book  bethurnbed  by  the 
dear  boy  she  has  lost.  She  hides  it  in  her  chair ; 
she  has  pity  on  you. 

Another  day  of  revival,  when  the  spring 

sun  shines,  and  flowers  open  out  of  doors ;  she 
leans  on  your  arm,  and  strolls  into  the  garden 
where  the  first  birds  are  singing.  Listen  to  them 
with  her ; — what  memories  are  in  bird-songs ! 
You  need  not  shudder  at  her  tears — they  are  tears 
of  Thanksgiving.  Press  the  hand  that  lies  light 
upon  your  arm,  and  you,  too,  thank  God,  while  yet 
you  may ! 

You  are  early  home — mid-afternoon.  Your  step 
is  not  light ;  it  is  heavy,  terrible. 

They  have  sent  for  you. 

She  is  lying  down ;  her  eyes  half  closed ;  her 
breathing  long  and  interrupted. 

She  hears  you ;  her  eye  opens ;  you  put  your 
hand  in  hers ;  yours  trembles ; — hers  does  not. 
Her  lips  move  ;  it  is  your  name. 

"  Be  strong,"  she  says.  '•  God  will  help  you  ! " 

She  presses  harder  your  hand  : — "  Adieu  ! " 

A  long  breath — another ; — you  are  alone  again. 
No  tears  now ;  poor  man  !  You  cannot  find  them ! 

Again  home  early.     There  is  a  smell  of 


ASHES-SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.        47 

varnish  in  your  house.  A  coffin  is  there ;  they 
have  clothed  the  body  in  decent  grave  clothes,  and 
the  undertaker  is  screwing  down  the  lid,  slipping 
round  on  tip-toe.  Does  he  fear  to  waken  her  ? 

He  asks  you  a  simple  question  about  the  in- 
scription upon  the  plate,  rubbing  it  with  his  coat 
cuff.  You  look  him  straight  in  the  eye ;  you  mo- 
tion to  the  door ;  you  dare  not  speak. 

He  tafces  up  his  hat  and  glides  out  stealthful  as 
a  cat. 

The  man  has  done  his  work  well  for  all.  It  is 
a  nice  coffin — a  very  nice  coffin  1  Pass  your  hand 
over  it — how  smooth  ! 

Some  sprigs  of  mignionette  are  lying  carelessly 
in  a  little  gilt-edged  saucer.  She  loved  mignion- 
ette. 

It  is  a  good  staunch  table  the  coffin  rests  on  ; — 
it  is  your  table  ;  you  are  a  housekeeper — a  man  of 
family  1 

Aye,  of  family ! — keep  down  outcry,  or  the 
nurse  will  be  in.  Look  over  at  the  pinched  fea- 
tures ;  is  this  all  that  is  left  of  her  ?  And  where  is 
your  heart  now  ?  No,  don't  thrust  your  nails  into 
your  hands,  nor  mangle  your  lip,  nor  grate  your 
teeth  together.  If  you  could  only  weep  ! 

Another  day.  The  coffin  is  gone  out.  The 

stupid  mourners  have  wept — what  idle  tears  I  She, 
with  your  crushed  heart,  has  gone  out ! 

Will  you  have  pleasant  evenings  at  your  home 
now? 

Go  into  your  parlor  that  your  prim  housekeeper 


48  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

has  made  comfortable  with  clean  hearth  and  blaze 
of  sticks. 

Sit  down  in  your  chair ;  there  is  another  velvet- 
cushioned  one,  over  against  yours — empty.  You 
press  your  fingers  on  your  eye-balls,  as  if  you  would 
press  out  something  that  hurt  the  brain ;  but  you 
cannot.  Your  head  leans  upon  your  hand ;  your 
eye  rests  upon  the  flashing  blaze. 

Ashes  always  come  after  blaze. 

Go  now  into  the  room  where  she  was  sick — 
softly,  lest  the  prim  housekeeper  come  after. 

They  have  put  new  dimity  upon  her  chair ; 
they  have  hung  new  curtains  over  the  bed.  They 
have  removed  from  the  stand  its  phials,  and  silver 
bell ;  they  have  put  a  little  vase  of  flowers  in  their 
place ;  the  perfume  will  not  offend  the  sick  sense 
now.  They  have  half  opened  the  window,  that  the 
room  so  long  closed  may  have  air.  It  will  not  be 
too  cold. 

She  is  not  there. 

Oh,  God  ! — thou  who  dost  temper  the  wind 

to  the  shorn  lamb — be  kind  ! 

The  embers  were  dark ;  I  stirred  them ;  there 
was  no  sign  of  life.  My  dog  was  asleep.  The 
clocK  in  my  tenant's  chamber  had  struck  one. 

I  dashed  a  tear  or  two  from  my  eyes ; — how 
they  came  there  I  know  not.  I  half  ejaculated  a 
prayer  of  thanks,  that  such  desolation  had  not  yet 
come  nigh  me;  and  a  prayer  of  hope — that  it 
might  never  come. 

In  a  half  hour  more,  I  was  sleeping  soundly. 
My  reverie  was  ended. 


mvlt. 

BE  A    GOAL  AND   ANTHRACIT8. 


BY  A    CITY  GRATE. 


"[BLESSED  be  letters! — they  are  the  monitors, 
JLD  they  are  also  the  comforters,  and  they  are 
the  only  true  heart-talkers!  Your  speech,  and 
their  speeches,  are  conventional ;  they  are  moulded 
by  circumstance;  they  are  suggested  by  the  ob- 
servation, remark,  and  influence  of  the  parties  to 
whom  the  speaking  is  addressed,  or  by  whom  it 
may  be  overheard. 

Your  truest  thought  is  modified  half  through  its 
utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign,  a  smile,  or  a  sneer.  It 
is  not  individual ;  it  is  not  integral :  it  is  social 
and  mixed, — half  of  you,  and  half  of  others.  It 
bends,  it  sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  ad- 
vances, as  the  talk  of  others  presses,  relaxes,  or 
quickens. 

But  it  is  not  so  of  Letters  : — there  you  are,  with 
only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow-white,  virgin 
paper.  Your  soul  is  measuring  itself  by  itself,  and 


52  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

saying  its  own  sayings :  there  are  no  sneers  to  mod- 
ify its  utterance, — no  scowl  to  scare, — nothing  is 
present,  but  you  and  your  thought. 

Utter  it  then  freely — write  it  down — stamp  it — 
burn  it  in  the  ink ! There  it  is,  a  true  soul- 
print  I 

Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion  of  a 
letter !  It  is  worth  all  the  lip-talk  in  the  world. 
Do  you  say,  it  is  studied,  made  up,  acted,  rehearsed, 
contrived,  artistic  ? 

Let  me  see  it  then ,  let  me  run  it  over ;  tell  me 
age,  sex,  circumstance,  and  I  will  tell  you  if  it  be 
studied  or  real ; — if  it  be  the  merest  lip-slang  put 
into  words,  or  heart-talk  blazing  on  the  paper. 

I  have  a  little  pacquet,  not  very  large,  tied  up 
with  narrow  crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled  with  fre- 
quent handling,  which  far  into  some  winter's  night, 
I  take  down  from  its  nook  upon  my  shelf,  and  untie, 
and  open,  and  run  over,  with  such  sorrow,  and 
such  joy, — such  tears  and  such  smiles,  as  I  am  sure 
make  me  for  weeks  after,  a  kinder,  and  holier  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  pacquet,  letters  in  the 
familiar  hand  of  a  mother what  gentle  admoni- 
tion ; — what  tender  affection  ! — God  have  mercy  on 
him  who  outlives  the  tears  that  such  admonitions, 
and  such  affection  call  up  to  the  eye  !  There  are 
others  in  the  budget,  in  the  delicate,  and  unformed 
hand  of  a  loved,  and  lost  sister ; — written  when 
she,  and  you  were  full  of  glee,  and  the  best  mirth 
of  youthfulness ;  does  it  harm  you  to  recall  that 
mirthfulness  ?  or  to  trace  again,  for  the  hundredth 


BY  A   CITY  GRATE.  53 

time,  that  scrawling  postscript  at  the  bottom,  with 
its  Vs  so  carefully  dotted,  and  its  gigantic  Vs  so 
carefully  crossed,  by  the  childish  hand  of  a  little 
brother  ? 

I  have  added  latterly  to  that  pacquet  of  letters ; 
I  almost  need  a  new  and  longer  ribbon ;  the  old 
one  is  getting  too  short.  Not  a  few  of  these  new 
and  cherished  letters,  a  former  Reverie*  has  brought 
to  me  ;  not  letters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was  well 
done,  artfully  executed,  prettily  imagined — no  such 
thing :  but  letters  of  sympathy — of  sympathy  which 
means  sympathy — the;rad';/u  and  the  aw. 

It  would  be  cold,  and  dastardly  work  to  copy 
them ;  I  am  too  selfish  for  that.  It  is  enough  to 
say  that  they,  the  kind  writers,  have  seen  a  heart 
in  the  Reverie — have  felt  that  it  was  real,  true. 
They  know  it ;  a  secret  influence  has  told  it. 
What  matters  it,  pray,  if  literally,  there  was  no 
wife,  and  no  dead  child,  and  no  coffin  in  the  house  ? 
Is  not  feeling,  feeling ;  and  heart,  heart  ?  Are  not 
these  fancies  thronging  on  my  brain,  bringing  tears 
to  my  eyes,  bringing  joy  to  my  soul,  as  living,  as 
anything  human  can  be  living  ?  What  if  they  have 
no  material  type — no  objective  form  ?  All  that  is 
crude, — a  mere  reduction  of  ideality  to  sense, — a 
transformation  of  the  spiritual  to  the  earthly, — a 
levelling  of  soul  to  matter. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  passion  ? 

*  The  first  Reverie — Smoke,  Flame,  and  Ashes,  was  pub- 
lished pome  months  previous  to  this,  in  the  Southern  Literary 
Messenger. 

6* 


54  EEYER1ES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

Is  anything  about  us  more  earnest  than  that  same 
thought  and  passion  ?  Is  there  anything  more 
real, — more  characteristic  of  that  great  and  dim 
destiny  to  which  we  are  born,  and  which  may  be 
written  down  in  that  terrible  word — Forever  ? 

Let  those  who  will  then,  sneer  at  what  in  their 
wisdom  they  call  untruth — at  what  is  false,  because 
it  has  no  material  presence  :  this  does  not  create 
falsity  ;  would  to  Heaven  that  it  did  ! 

And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth, 
superadded  to  Reverie,  would  such  objectors  sym- 
pathize the  more  ?  No  ! — a  thousand  times,  no  ; 
the  heart  that  has  no  sympathy  with  thoughts  and 
feelings  that  scorch  the  soul,  is  dead  also-  -wnat ever 
its  mocking  tears,  and  gestures  may  say — <o  a  coffin 
or  a  grave  ! 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  WA  to  these 
cherished  letters. 

A  mother,  who  has  lost  a  child,  ias,  she  says, 
shed  a  tear — not  one,  but  many — over  the  dead 
boy's  coldness.  And  another,  who  has  not  lost, 
but  who  trembles  lest  she  lose,  has  found  the  words 
failing  as  she  read,  and  a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist, 
spreading  over  the  page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  ail  those  family  ties, 
that  make  life  a  charm,  has  listened  nervously  to 
careful  reading,  until  the  husband  is  called  home, 
and  the  coffin  is  in  the  hoiise. — "  Stop  !  " — she  says ; 
and  a  gush  of  tears  tells  the  rest. 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  e&y—  -"  it  was  artfully 


B7  A   CITY  GRATE.  55 

done."  A  curse  on  him  ! — it  was  not  art :  it  was 
nature. 

Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl-mind, 
has  seen  something  in  the  love-picture — albeit  so 
weak — of  truth ;  and  has  kindly  believed  that  it 
must  be  earnest.  Aye,  indeed  is  it,  fair,  and  gen- 
erous one, — earnest  as  life  and  hope  !  Who  indeed 
with  a  heart  at  all,  that  has  not  yet  slipped  away 
irreparably,  and  forever  from  the  shores  of  youth — 
from  that  fairy  land  which  young  enthusiasm 
creates,  and  over  which  bright  dreams  hover — but 
knows  it  to  be  real  ?  And  so  such  things  will  be 
real,  till  hopes  are  dashed,  and  Death  is  come. 

Another,  a  father,  has  laid  down  the  book  in 
tears. 

— God  bless  them  all !  How  far  better  this, 
than  the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  paragraphs,  or 
the  critically  contrived  approval  of  colder  friends  ! 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters,  carefully, — to  be 
read  when  the  heart  is  faint,  and  sick  of  all  that 
there  is  unreal,  and  selfish  in  the  world.  Let  me 
tie  them  together,  with  a  new,  and  longer  bit  of 
ribbon — not  by  a  love  knot,  that  is  too  hard — but 
by  an  easy  slipping  knot,  that  so  I  may  get  at  them 
the  better.  And  now,  they  are  all  together,  a  snug 
pacquet,  and  we  will  label  them,  not  sentimentally, 
(I  pity  the  one  who  thinks  it !)  but  earnestly,  and 
in  the  best  meaning  of  the  term — SOUVENIRS  DTJ 
CCECR. 

Thanks  to  my  first  Reverie,  which  has  added  tc 
such  a  treasure  I 


56  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

— And  now  to  my  SECOND  REVERIE 

I  am  no  longer  in  the  country.  The  fields,  the 
trees,  the  brooks  are  far  away  from  me,  and  yet  they 
are  very  present.  A  letter  from  my  tenant — how 
different  from  those  other  letters ! — lies  upon  my 
table,  telling  me  what  fields  he  has  broken  up  for 
the  autumn  grain,  and  how  many  beeves  he  is  fat- 
tening, and  how  the  potatoes  are  turning  out. 

But  I  am  in  a  garret  of  the  city.  From  my 
window  I  look  over  a  mass  of  crowded  house-tops 
— moralizing  often  upon  the  scene,  but  in  a  strain 
too  long,  and  sombre  to  be  set  down  here.  In 
place  of  the  wide  country  chimney,  with  its  iron 
fire-dogs,  is  a  snug  grate,  where  the  maid  makes 
me  a  fire  in  the  morning,  and  rekindles  it  in  the 
afternoon. 

I  am  usually  fairly  seated  in  my  chair — a  cozily 
stuffed  office  chair — by  five  or  six  o'clock  of  the 
evening.  The  fire  has  been  newly  made,  perhaps 
an  hour  before  :  first,  the  maid  drops  a  withe  of 
paper  in  the  bottom  of  the  grate,  then  a  stick  or 
two  of  pine-wood,  and  after  it  a  hod  of  Liverpool 
coal ;  so  that  by  the  time  I  am  seated  for  the  even- 
ing, the  sea-coal  is  fairly  in  a  blaze. 

When  this  has  sunk  to  a  level  with  the  second 
bar  of  the  grate,  the  maid  replenishes  it  with  a  hod 
of  Anthracite  ;  and  I  sit  musing  and  reading,  while 
the  new  coal  warms  and  kindles — not  leaving  my 
place,  until  it  has  sunk  to  the  third  bar  of  the 
grate,  which  marks  my  bed-time. 

I  love  these  accidental  measures  of  the  hours, 


JBY  A   CITY  GBATK  57 

Which  belong  to  you,  and  your  life,  and  not  to  the 
world.  A  watch  is  no  more  the  measure  of  your 
time,  than  of  the  time  of  your  neighbors  ;  a  church 
clock  is  as  public,  and  vulgar  as  a  church-warden. 
I  would  as  soon  think  of  hiring  the  parish  sexton 
to  make  my  bed  as  to  regulate  my  time  by  the 
parish  clock. 

A  shadow  that  the  sun  casts  upon  your  carpet, 
or  a  streak  of  light  on  a  slated  roof  yonder,  or  the 
burning  of  your  fire,  are  pleasant  time-keepers, — 
full  of  presence,  full  of  companionship,  and  full  of 
warning — time  is  passing  ! 

In  the  summer  season  I  have  even  measured  my 
reading,  and  my  night-watch,  by  the  burning  of  a 
taper;  and  I  have  scratched  upon  the  handle  to 
the  little  bronze  taper-holder,  that  meaning  passage 
of  the  New  Testament, — Nv£  yap  fp^erai — the  night 
cometh  1 

But  I  must  get  upon  my  Reverie : — it  was  a 
drizzly  evening ;  I  had  worked  hard  during  the 
day,  and  had  drawn  my  boots — thrust  my  feet  into 
slippers — thrown  on  a  Turkish  loose  dress,  and 
Greek  cap — souvenirs  to  me  of  other  times,  and 
other  places — and  sat  watching  the  lively,  uncer« 
tain,  yellow  play  of  the  bituminous  flame. 


I. 

Sea-Coal. 

Eis  like  a  flirt — mused  I; — lively,  uncertain, 
3right-colored,  waving  here  and  there,  melting 
the  coal  into  black  shapeless  mass,  making  foul, 
sooty  smoke,  and  pasty,  trashy  residuum !  Yet 
withal, —  pleasantly  sparkling,  dancing,  prettily 
waving,  and  leaping  like  a  roebuck  from  point  to 
point. 

How  like  a  flirt !  And  yet  is  not  this  tossing 
caprice  of  girlhood,  to  which  I  liken  my  sea-coal 
flame,  a  native  play  of  life,  and  belonging  by  nature 
to  the  play-time  of  life  ?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  essen- 
tial fire-kindling  to  the  weightier  and  truer  pas- 
sions— even  as  Jenny  puts  the  soft  coal  first,  the 
better  to  kindle  the  anthracite  ?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of 
necessary  consumption  of  young  vapors,  which  float 
in  the  soul,  and  which  is  left  thereafter  the  purer  ? 
Is  there  not  a  stage  somewhere  in  every  man's 
youth,  for  just  such  waving,  idle  heart-blaze,  which 
means  nothing,  yet  which  must  be  got  over  ? 


SEA- COAL.  59 

Lamartine  says  somewhere,  very  prettily,  that 
there  is  more  of  quick  running  sap,  and  floating 
shade  in  a  young  tree ;  but  more  of  fire  in  the 
heart  of  a  sturdy  oak  : — H  y  a  plus  de  s&ce  fotte  et 
(Torribreflottante  dans  les  jeunes  plants  de  laforet ;  il 
y  a  plus  defeu  dans  le  vieux  cceur  du  chene, 

Is  Lamartine  playing  off  his  prettiness  of  expres- 
sion, dressing  up  with  his  poetry, — making  a  good 
conscience  against  the  ghost  of  some  accusing  Gra- 
ziella,  or  is  there  truth  in  the  matter  ? 

A  man  who  has  seen  sixty  years,  whether  wid- 
ower or  bachelor,  may  well  put  such  sentiment  into 
words :  it  feeds  his  wasted  heart  with  hope ;  it 
renews  the  exultation  of  youth  by  the  pleasantest  of 
equivocation,  and  the  most  charming  of  self-con- 
fidence. But  after  all,  is  it  not  true  ?  Is  not  the 
heart  like  new  blossoming  field-plants,  whose  first 
flowers  are  half-formed,  one-sided  perhaps,  but  by- 
and-by,  in  maturity  of  season,  putting  out  whole- 
some, well-formed  blossoms,  that  will  hold  their 
leaves  long  and  bravely  ? 

Bulwer  in  his  story  of  the  Caxtons,  has  counted 
first  heart-flights  mere  fancy-passages — a  dalliance 
with  the  breezes  of  love — which  pass,  and  leave 
healthful  heart  appetite.  Half  the  reading  world 
has  read  the  story  of  Trevanion  and  Pisistratus. 
But  Bulwer  is — past ;  his  heart-life  is  used  up — 
epulse.  Such  a  man  can  very  safely  rant  about  the 
cool  judgment  of  after  years. 

Where  does  Shakspeare  put  the  unripe  heart- 
age  ? — All  of  it  before  the  ambition,  that  alone 


60  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

makes  the  hero-soul.  The  Shakspeare  man  "  sigha 
like  a  furnace,"  before  he  stretches  his  arm  to 
achieve  the  "  bauble,  reputation." 

Yet  Shakspeare  has  meted  a  soul-love,  mature 
and  ripe,  without  any  young  furnace  sighs  to  Des- 
demona  and  Othello.  Cordelia,  the  sweetest  of  his 
play  creations,  loves  without  any  of  the  mawkish 
matter,  which  makes  the  whining  love  of  a  Juliet. 
And  Florizel  in  the  Winter's  Tale,  says  to  Perdita, 
in  the  true  spirit  of  a  most  sound  heart — 

My  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honor,  nor  my  •wishes 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 

How  is  it  with  Hector  and  Andromache  ? — no  sea- 
coal  blaze,  but  one  that  is  constant,  enduring,  per- 
vading :  a  pair  of  hearts  full  of  esteem,  and  best 
love, — good,  honest,  and  sound. 

Look  now  at  Adam  and  Eve,  in  God's  presence, 
with  Milton  for  showman.  Shall  we  quote  by  this 
sparkling  blaze,  a  gem  from  the  Paradise  Lost  ? 
We  will  hum  it  to  ourselves — what  Raphael  sings 
to  Adam — a  classic  song. 

Him,  serve  and  fear  ! 

Of  other  creatures,  as  Him  pleases  best 
Wherever  placed,  let  Him  dispose  ;  joy  thou 
In  -what  he  gives  to  thee,  this  Paradise 
And  thy  fair  Eve  1 


And  again : 

Love  refines 

The  thoughts,  and  heart  enlarges  •  hath  his  seat 

In  reason,  and  is  judicious  :  is  the  scale 

By  which  to  Heavenly  love  thou  may'st  ascend  1 


SEA- COAL.  61 

None  of  the  playing  sparkle  in  this  love,  which 
belongs  to  the  flame  of  my  sea-coal  fire,  that  is  now 
dancing,  lively  as  a  cricket.  But  on  looking  about 
my  garret  chamber,  I  can  see  nothing  that  resem- 
bles the  archangel  Raphael,  or  "  thy  fair  Eve." 

There  is  a  degree  of  moisture  about  the  sea-coal 
flame,  which  with  the  most  earnest  of  my  musing, 
I  find  it  impossible  to  attach  to  that  idea  of  a  wav- 
ing, sparkling  heart  which  my  fire  suggests.  A 
damp  heart  must  be  a  foul  thing  to  be  sure  !  But 
whoever  heard  of  one  ? 

Wordsworth  somewhere  in  the  Excursion, 
says : — 

The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket  I 

What,  in  the  name  of  Rydal  Mount,  is  a  dry 
heart  ?  A  dusty  one,  I  can  conceive  of:  a  bache- 
lor's heart  must  be  somewhat  dusty,  as  he  nears  the 
sixtieth  summer  of  his  pilgrimage  ; — and  hung  over 
with  cobwebs,  in  which  sit  such  watchful  gray  old 
spiders  as  Avarice,  Selfishness,  forever  on  the  look 
out  for  such  bottle-green  flies  as  Lust. 

"  I  will  never  " — said  I — griping  at  the  elbows 
of  my  chair, — "  live  a  bachelor  till  sixty  : — never, 
so  surely  as  there  is  hope  in  man,  or  charity  in 
woman,  or  faith  in  both  !  " 

And  with  that  thought,  my  heart  leaped  about 

in  playful  coruscations,  even  like  the  flame  of  the 

sea-coal ; — rising,  and  wrapping  round   old    and 

tender  memories,  and  images  that  were  present  to 

6 


62  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

me, — trying  to  cling,  and  yet  no  sooner  fastened, 
than  off — dancing  again,  riotous  in  its  exultation — • 
a  succession  of  heart-sparkles,  blazing,  and  going 
out ! 

— And  is  there  not  —mused  I, — a  portion  of  this 
world,  forever  blazing  in  just  such  lively  sparkles 
waving  here  and  there  as  the  air-currents  fan 
them  ? 

Take  for  instance  your  heart  of  sentiment,  and 
quick  sensibility,  a  weak,  warm-working  heart, 
flying  off  in  tangents  of  unhappy  influence,  uu- 
guided  by  prudence,  and  perhaps  virtue.  There  is 
a  paper  by  Mackenzie  in  the  Mirror  for  April,  1780, 
which  sets  this  untoward  sensibility  in  a  strong 
light. 

And  the  more  it  is  indulged,  the  more  strong 
and  binding  such  a  habit  of  sensibility  becomes. 
Poor  Mackenzie  himself  must  have  suffered  thus ; 
you  cannot  read  his  books  without  feeling  it ;  your 
eye,  in  spite  of  you,  runs  over  with  his  sensitive 
griefs,  while  you  are  half-ashamed  of  his  success  at 
picture-making.  It  is  a  terrible  inheritance ;  and 
one  that  a  strong  man  or  woman  will  study  to  sub- 
due :  it  is  a  vain  sea-coal  sparkling,  which  will 
count  no  good.  The  world  is  made  of  much  hard, 
flinty  substance,  against  which  your  better,  and 
holier  thoughts  will  be  striking  fire; — see  to  it, 
that  the  sparks  do  not  burn  you  ! 

But  what  a  happy,  careless  life  belongs  to  this 
Bachelorhood,  in  which  you  may  strike  out  boldly 
right  and  left !  Your  heart  is  not  bound  to  an- 


SEA-COAL.  63 

other  which  may  be  full  of  only  sickly  vapors  of 
feeling;  nor  is  it  frozen  to  a  cold,  man's  heart 
under  a  silk  boddice — knowing  nothing  of  tender- 
ness but  the  name,  to  prate  of;  and  nothing  of 
soul-confidence,  but  clumsy  confession.  And  if  in 
your  careless  out-goings  of  feeling,  you  get  here, 
only  a  little  lip  vapidity  in  return ;  be  sure  that 
you  will  find,  elsewhere,  a  true  heart  utterance. 
This  last  you  will  cherish  in  your  inner  soul — a 
nucleus  for  a  new  group  of  affections ;  and  the 
other  will  pass  with  a  whiff"  of  your  cigar. 

Or  if  your  feelings  are  touched,  struck,  hurt, 
who  is  the  wiser,  or  the  worse,  but  you  only  ?  And 
have  you  not  the  whole  skein  of  your  heart-life  in 
your  own  fingers  to  wind,  or  unwind,  in  what  shape 
you  please  ?  Shake  it  or  twine  it,  or  tangle  it,  by 
the  light  of  your  fire,  as  you  fancy  best.  He  is  a 
weak  man  who  cannot  twist  and  \veave  the  threads 
of  his  feeling — however  fine,  however  tangled,  how- 
ever strained,  or  however  strong — into  the  great 
cable  of  Purpose,  by  which  he  lies  moored  to  his 
life  of  Action. 

Reading  is  a  great,  and  happy  disentangler  of 
all  those  knotted  snarls — those  extravagant  vaga- 
ries, which  belong  to  a  heart  sparkling  with  sensi- 
bility ;  but  the  reading  must  be  cautiously  direct- 
ed. There  is  old,  placid  Burton  when  your  soul  is 
weak,  and  its  digestion  of  life's  humors  is  bad ; 
there  is  Cowper  when  your  spirit  runs  into  kindly, 
half-sad,  religious  musing ;  there  is  Crabbe  when 
you  would  shake  off  vagary,  by  a  little  handling  of 


64  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

sharp  actualities.  There  is  Voltaire,  a  homeopathic 
doctor,  whom  you  can  read  when  you  want  to  make 
a  play  of  life,  and  crack  jokes  at  Nature,  and  be 
witty  with  Destiny ;  there  is  Rousseau,  when  you 
want  to  lose  yourself  in  a  mental  dream-land,  and 
be  beguiled  by  the  harmony  of  soul-music  and  soul- 
culture. 

And  when  you  would  shake  off  this,  and  be 
sturdiest  among  the  battlers  for  hard,  world-suc- 
cess, and  be  forewarned  of  rocks  against  which  you 
must  surely  smite — read  Bolingbroke  ; — run  over 
the  letters  of  Lyttleton ;  read,  and  think  of  what 
you  read,  in  the  cracking  lines  of  Rochefoucauld. 
How  he  sums  us  up  in  his  stinging  words  ! — how 
he  puts  the  scalpel  between  the  nerves — yet  he 
never  hurts ;  for  he  is  dissecting  dead  matter. 

If  you  are  in  a  genial  careless  mood,  who  is  bet- 
ter than  such  extemporizers  of  feeling  and  nature — 
good-hearted  fellows — as  Sterne  and  Fielding  ? 

And  then  again,  there  are  Milton  and  Isaiah,  to 
lift  up  one's  soul  until  it  touches  cloud-land,  and 
you  wander  with  their  guidance,  on  swift  feet,  to 
the  very  gates  of  Heaven. 

But  this  sparkling  sensibility  to  one  struggling 
under  infirmity,  or  with  grief  or  poverty,  is  very 
dreadful.  The  soul  is  too  nicely  and  keenly  hinged 
to  be  wrenched  without  mischief.  How  it  shrinks, 
like  a  hurt  child,  from  all  that  is  vulgar,  harsh,  and 
crude  1  Alas,  for  such  a  man  ! — he  will  be  bufleted, 
from  beginning  to  end ;  his  life  will  be  a  sea  of 
troubles.  The  poor  victim  of  his  own  quick  spirit 


SEA- COAL.  65 

he  wanders  with  a  great  shield  of  doubt  hung  be- 
fore him,  so  that  none,  not  even  friends,  can  see  the 
goodness  of  such  kindly  qualities  as  belong  to  him. 
Poverty,  if  it  comes  upon  him,  he  wrestles  with  in 
secret  with  strong,  frenzied  struggles.  He  wraps 
his  scant  clothes  about  him  to  keep  him  from  the 
cold  ;  and  eyes  the  world,  as  if  every  creature  in  it 
was  breathing  chill  blasts  at  him,  from  every 
opened  mouth.  He  threads  the  crowded  ways  of 
the  city,  proud  in  his  griefs,  vain  in  his  weakness, 
not  stopping  to  do  good.  Bulwer,  in  the  New 
Timon,  has  painted  in  a  pair  of  stinging  Pope-like 
lines,  this  feeling  in  a  woman  : 

Her  vengeful  pride,  a  kind  of  madness  grown, 

She  bugged  her  wrongs,  her  sorrow  was  her  throne  I 

Cold  picture  !  yet  the  heart  was  sparkling  under 
it,  like  my  sea-coal  fire ;  lifting  and  blazing,  and 
lighting  and  falling, — but  with  no  object ;  and 
only  such  little  heat  as  begins  and  ends  within. 

Those  fine  sensibilities,  ever  active,  are  chasing 
and  observing  all ;  they  catch  a  hue  from  what  the 
dull  and  callous  pass  by  unnoticed, — because  un- 
known. They  blunder  at  the  great  variety  of  the 
world's  opinions ;  they  see  tokens  of  belief,  where 
others  see  none.  That  delicate  organization  is  a 
curse  to  a  man  ;  and  yet  poor  fool,  he  does  not  see 
where  his  cure  lies ;  he  wonders  at  his  griefs,  and 
has  never  reckoned  with  himself  their  source.  He 
studies  others,  without  stxiclv>y,g  himself.  He  eats 
6* 


66  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

the  leaves  that  sicken,  and  never  plucks  up  the  root 
that  will  cure. 

With  a  woman  it  is  worse ;  with  her,  this  deli- 
cate susceptibility  is  like  a  frail  flower,  that  quivers 
at  every  rough  blast  of  heaven  ;  her  own  delicacy 
wounds  her ;  her  highest  charm  is  perverted  to  a 
curse. 

She  listens  with  fear ;  she  reads  with  trembling  ; 
she  looks  with  dread.  Her  sympathies  give  a  tone, 
like  the  harp  of  u3Solus,  to  the  slightest  breath. 
Her  sensibility  lights  up,  and  quivers  and  falls,  like 
the  flame  of  a  sea-coal  fire. 

If  she  loves — and  may  not  a  Bachelor  reason  on 
this  daintiest  of  topics) — her  love  is  a  gushing, 
wavy  flame,  lit  up  with  hope,  that  has  only  a  little 
kindling  matter  to  light  it ;  and  this  soon  burns 
out.  Yet  intense  sensibility  will  persuade  her  that 
the  flame  still  scorches.  She  will  mistake  the  an- 
noyance of  affection  unrequited  for  the  sting  of  a 
passion,  that  she  fancies  still  burns.  She  does  not 
look  deep  enough  to  see  that  the  passion  is  gone, 
and  the  shocked  sensitiveness  emits  only  faint, 
yellowish  sparkles  in  its  place ;  her  high-wrought 
organization  makes  those  sparks  seem  a  veritable 
flame. 

With  her,  judgment,  prudence,  and  discretion 
are  cold  measured  terms,  which  have  no  meaning, 
except  as  they  attach  to  the  actions  of  others.  Of 
her  own  acts,  she  never  predicates  them  ;  feeling  is 
much  too  high,  to  allow  her  to  submit  to  any  such 
obtrusive  guides  of  conduct.  She  needs  disap- 


SEA-COAL.  67 

pointment  to  teach  her  truth  ; — to  teach  that  all  ia 
not  gold  that  glitters — to  teach  that  all  warmth 
does  not  blaze.  But  let  her  beware  how  she  sinks 
under  any  fancied  disappointments  :  she  who  sinks 
under  real  disappointment,  lacks  philosophy ;  but 
she  who  sinks  under  a  fancied  one,  lacks  purpose. 
Let  her  flee  as  the  plague,  such  brooding  thoughts 
as  she  will  love  to  cherish  ;  let  her  spurn  dark  fan- 
cies as  the  visitants  of  hell ;  let  the  soul  rise  with 
the  blaze  of  new-kindled,  active,  and  world-wide 
emotions,  and  so  brighten  into  steady  and  constant 
flame.  Let  her  abjure  such  poets  as  Cowper,  or 
Byron,  or  even  Wordsworth ;  and  if  she  must 
poetize,  let  her  lay  her  mind  to  such  manly  verse  as 
Pope's,  or  to  such  sound  and  ringing  orgaury  as 
Comus. 

My  fire  was  getting  dull,  and  I  thrust  in  the 
poker  :  it  started  up  on  the  instant  into  a  hundred 
little  angry  tongues  of  flame. 

— Just  so — thought  I — the  over-sensitive  heart 
once  cruelly  disturbed,  will  fling  out  a  score  of  flam- 
ing passions,  darting  here,  and  darting  there, — half- 
smoke,  half-flame — love  and  hate — canker  and  joy 
— wild  in  its  madness,  not  knowing  whither  its 
sparks  are  flying.  Once  break  roughly  upon  the 
affections,  or  even  the  fancied  affections  of  such  a 
soul,  and  you  breed  a  tornado  of  maddened  action 
— a  whirlwind  of  fire  that  hisses,  and  sends  out 
jets  of  wild,  impulsive  combustion,  that  make  the 
bystanders, — even  those  most  friendly — stand  aloof, 
until  the  storm  is  past. 


68  EEVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

But  this  is  not  all  that  the  dashing  flame  of  rny 
sea-coal  suggests. 

How  like  a  flirt ! — mused  I  again,  recurring 

to  my  first  thought — so  lively,  yet  uncertain ;  so 
bright,  yet  so  flickering !  Your  true  flirt  playa 
with  sparkles ;  her  heart,  much  as  there  is  of  it, 
spends  itself  in  sparkles ;  she  measures  it  to  sparkle, 
and  habit  grows  into  nature,  so  that  anon,  it  can 
only  sparkle.  How  carefully  she  cramps  it,  if  the 
flames  show  too  great  a  heat ;  how  dexterously  she 
flings  its  blaze  here  and  there  ;  how  coyly  she  sub- 
dues it ;  how  winningly  she  lights  it ! 

All  this  is  the  entire  reverse  of  the  unpremedi- 
tated dartings  of  the  soul  at  which  I  have  been 
looking ;  sensibility  scorns  heart-curbings,  and 
heart-teachings ;  sensibility  enquires  not  —  how 
much  ?  but  only — where  ? 

Your  true  flirt  has  a  coarse-grained  soul ;  well 
modulated  and  well  tutored,  but  there  is  no  fineness 
in  it.  All  its  native  fineness  is  made  coarse,  by 
coarse  efforts  of  the  will.  True  feeling  is  a  rustic 
vulgarity,  the  flirt  does  not  tolerate  ;  she  counts  its 
healthiest  and  most  honest  manifestation,  all  senti- 
ment. Yet  she  will  play  you  off  a  pretty  string  of 
sentiment,  which  she  has  gathered  from  the  poets  ; 
she  adjusts  it  prettily  as  a  Gobelin  weaver  adjusts 
the  colors  in  his  tapis.  She  shades  it  off  delight- 
fully ;  there  are  no  bold  contrasts,  but  a  most  artis- 
tic mellow  of  nuances. 

She  smiles  like  a  wizard,  and  jingles  it  with  a 
laugh,  such  as  tolled  the  poor  home-bound  Ulysses 


SEA-COAL.  gg 

to  the.  Circean  bower.  She  has  a  cast  of  the  head, 
apt  and  artful  as  the  most  dexterous  cast  of  the 
best  trout-killing  rod.  Her  words  sparkle,  and 
flow  hurriedly,  and  with  the  prettiest  doubleness 
of  meaning.  Naturalness  she  copies,  and  she 
scorns.  She  accuses  herself  of  a  single  expression 
of  regard,  Avhich  nature  prompts.  She  prides  her- 
self on  her  schooling.  She  measures  her  wit  by 
the  triumphs  of  her  art ;  she  chuckles  over  her  own 
falsity  to  herself.  And  if  by  chance  her  soul — such 
germ  as  is  left  of  it — betrays  her  into  untoward 
confidence,  she  condemns  herself,  as  if  she  had  com- 
mitted crime. 

She  is  always  gay,  because  she  has  no  depth  of 
feeling  to  be  stirred.  The  brook  that  runs  shallow 
over  hard  pebbly  bottom  always  rustles.  She  is 
light-hearted,  because  her  heart  floats  in  sparkles — 
like  my  sea-coal  fire.  She  counts  on  marriage,  not 
as  the  great  absorbent  of  a  heart's-love,  and  life, 
but  as  a  happy,  feasible,  and  orderly  conventional- 
ity, to  be  played  with,  and  kept  at  distance,  and 
finally  to  be  accepted  as  a  cover  for  the  faint  and 
tawdry  sparkles  of  an  old  and  cherished  heartless- 
ness. 

She  will  not  pine  under  any  regrets,  because  she 
has  no  appreciation  of  any  loss :  she  will  not  chafe 
at  indifference,  because  it  is  her  art ;  she  will  not  be 
worried  with  jealousies,  because  she  is  ignorant  of 
love.  With  no  conception  of  the  soul  in  its  strength 
and  fulness,  she  sees  no  lack  of  its  demands.  A 
thrill,  she  does  not  know ;  a  passion,  she  cannot 


70  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

imagine  ;  joy  is  a  name  ;  grief  is  another ;  and  Life 
•with  its  crowding  scenes  of  love  and  bitterness,  is  a 
play  upon  the  stage. 

I  think  it  is  Madame  Dudevant  who  says,  in 
something  like  the  same  connection  : — Les  hiboux  ne 
connaissent  pas  le  chemin  par  ou  les  aigles  vont  au 
soleil. 

Poor  Ned  ! — mused  I,  looking  at  the  play 

of  the  fire — was  a  victim  and  a  conqueror.  He  was 
a  man  of  a  full,  strong  nature — not  a  little  impul- 
sive— with  action  too  full  of  earnestness  for  most  of 
men  to  see  its  drift.  He  had  known  little  of  what 
is  called  the  world ;  he  was  fresh  in  feeling  and 
high  of  hope ;  he  had  been  encircled  always  by 
friends  who  loved  him,  and  who,  may  be,  flattered 
him.  Scarce  had  he  entered  upon  the  tangled  life 
of  the  city,  before  he  met  with  a  sparkling  face  and 
an  airy  step,  that  stirred  something  in  poor  Ned, 
that  he  had  never  felt  before.  With  him,  to  feel 
was  to  act.  He  was  not  one  to  be  despised ;  for 
notwithstanding  he  wore  a  country  air,  and  the 
awkwardness  of  a  man  who  has  yet  the  Inenseance 
of  social  life  before  him,  he  had  the  soul,  the 
courage,  and  the  talent  of  a  strong  man.  Little 
gifted  in  the  knowledge  of  face-play,  he  easily  mis- 
took those  coy  manoeuvres  of  a  sparkling  heart,  for 
something  kindred  to  his  own  true  emotions. 

She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a  man  who 
carried  a  mind  in  his  brain ;  and  flattered  poor 
Ned  almost  into  servility.  Ned  had  no  friends  to 
counsel  him ;  or  if  he  had  them,  his  impulses  would 


SEA-COAL.  71 

have  blinded  him.  Never  was  dodger  more  artful 
at  the  Olympic  Games  than  the  Peggy  of  Ned's 
heart-affection.  He  was  charmed,  beguiled,  en- 
tranced. 

When  Ned  spoke  of  love,  she  staved  it  off  with 
the  prettiest  of  sly  looks  that  only  bewildered  him 
the  more.  A  charming  creature  to  be  sure ;  coy  as 
a  dove ! 

So  he  went  on,  poor  fool,  until  one  day — he 
told  me  of  it  with  the  blood  mounting  to  his  tem- 
ples, and  his  eye  shooting  flame — he  suffered  hig 
feelings  to  run  out  in  passionate  avowal, — entreaty, 
— everything.  She  gave  a  pleasant,  noisy  laugh, 
and  manifested — such  pretty  surprise  ! 

He  was  looking  for  the  intense  glow  of  passion ; 
and  lo,  there  was  nothing  but  the  shifting  sparkle 
of  a  sea-coal  flame. 

I  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence — for  I  was 
his  senior  l;y  a  year; — "My  dear  fellow,"  said  I, 
"  diet  yourself;  you  can  find  greens  at  the  up-town 
market ;  eat  a  little  fish  with  your  dinner ;  abstain 
from  heating  drinks :  don't  put  too  much  butter  to 
your  cauliflowei  ;  read  one  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  ser- 
mons, and  translate  all  the  quotations  at  sight ;  run 
carefully  over  that  exquisite  picture  of  Geo.  Dandin 
in  your  Moliere,  and  my  word  for  it,  in  a  week  you 
will  be  a  sound  man." 

He  was  too  angry  to  reply ;  but  eighteen 
months  thereafter  I  got  a  thick,  three-sheeted  letter, 
with  a  dove  upon  the  seal,  telling  me  that  he  was 
as  happy  as  a  king :  he  said  he  had  married  a 


72  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

good-hearted,  domestic,  loving  wife,  who  was  as 
lovely  as  a  June  day,  and  that  their  baby,  not 
three  months  old,  \vas  as  bright  as  a  spot  of  June 
day  sunshine  on  the  grass. 

— What  a  tender,  delicate,  loving  wife — mused  I 
— such  flashing,  flaming  flirt  must  in  the  end  make ; 
— the  prostitute  of  fashion ;  the  bauble  of  fifty 
hearts  idle  as  hers ;  the  shifting  make-piece  of  a 
stage  scene  ;  the  actress,  now  in  peasant,  and  now 
in  princely  petticoats !  How  it  would  cheer  an 
honest  soul  to  call  her — his  1  What  a  culmination 
of  his  heart-life ;  what  a  rich  dream-land  to  be 
realized ! 

Bah !  and  I  thrust  the  poker  into  the 

clotted  mass  of  fading  coal — just  such,  and  so 
worthless  is  the  used  heart  of  a  city  flirt ;  just  so 
the  incessant  sparkle  of  her  life,  and  frittering  pas- 
sions, fuses  all  that  is  sound  and  combustible,  into 
black,  sooty,  shapeless  residuum. 

When  I  marry  a  flirt,  I  will  buy  second-hand 
clothes  of  the  Jews. 

— Still — mused  I — as  the  flame  danced  again — 
there  is  a  distinction  between  coquetry  and  flirta- 
tion. 

A  coquette  sparkles,  but  it  is  more  the  sparkle 
of  a  harmless  and  pretty  vanity,  than  of  calculation. 
It  is  the  play  of  humors  in  the  blood,  and  not  the 
play  of  purpose  at  the  heart.  It  will  flicker  around 
a  true  soul  like  the  blaze  around  an  omelette  an 
rhum,  leaving  the  kernel  sounder  and  warmer. 

Coquetry,  with    all  its  pranks   and  teasings, 


SEA-COAL,  73 

makes  the  spice  to  your  dinner — the  mulled  wine 
to  your  supper.  It  will  drive  you  to  desperation, 
only  to  bring  you  back  hotter  to  the  fray.  Who 
would  boast  a  victory  that  cost  no  strategy,  and  no 
careful  disposition  of  the  forces  ?  Who  would 
bulletin  such  success  as  my  Uncle  Toby's,  in  a 
back-garden,  with  only  the  Corporal  Trim  for  as- 
sailant ?  But  let  a  man  be  very  sure  that  the  city 
is  worth  the  siege  ! 

Coquetry  whets  the  appetite ;  flirtation  depraves 
it.  Coquetry  is  the  thorn  that  guards  the  rose — 
easily  trimmed  off  when  once  plucked.  Flirtation 
is  like  the  slime  on  water-plants,  making  them  hard 
to  handle,  and  when  caught,  only  to  be  cherished 
in  slimy  waters. 

And  so,  with  my  eye  clinging  to  the  flickering 
blaze,  I  see  in  my  reverie,  a  bright  one  dancing 
before  me,  with  sparkling,  coquettish  smile,  teasing 
me  with  the  prettiest  graces  in  the  world ; — and 
I  grow  maddened  between  hope  and  fear,  and  still 
watch  with  my  whole  soul  in  my  eyes ;  and  see  her 
features  by  and  by  relax  to  pity,  as  a  gleam  of  sensi- 
bility comes  stealing  over  her  spirit ; — and  then  to 
a  kindly,  feeling  regard  :  presently  she  approaches, 
— a  coy  and  doubtful  approach — and  throws  back 
the  ringlets  that  lie  over  her  cheek,  and  lays  her 
hand — a  little  bit  of  white  hand — timidly  upon  my 
strong  fingers, — and  turns  her  head  daintily  to  one 
side, — and  looks  up  in  my  eyes,  as  they  rest  on  the 
playing  blaze  ;  and  my  fingers  close  fast  and  pas- 
sionately over  that  little  hand,  like  a  swift  night- 
7 


74  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

cloud  shrouding  the  pale  tips  of  Dian ; — and  my 
eyes  draw  nearer  and  nearer  to  those  blue,  laugh- 
ing, pitying,  teasing  eyes,  and  my  arm  clasps  round 
that  shadowy  form, — and  my  lips  feel  a  warm 

breath — growing  warmer  and  warmer 

Just  here  the  maid  comes  in,  and  throws  upon 
the  fire  a  pan-ful  of  Anthracite,  and  my  sparkling 
eea-coal  reverie  is  ended. 


n. 

Anthracite. 

IT  does  not  burn  freely,  so  I  put  on  the  blower. 
Quaint  and  good-natured  Xavier  de  Maistre  * 
would  have  made,  I  dare  say,  a  pretty  epilogue 
about  a  sheet-iron  blower ;  but  I  cannot. 

I  try  to  bring  back  the  image  that  belonged  to 
the  lingering  bituminous  flame,  but  with  my  eyes 
on  that  dark  blower, — how  can  I  ? 

It  is  the  black  curtain  of  destiny  which  drops 
down  before  our  brightest  dreams.  How  often  the 
phantoms  of  joy  regale  us,  and  dance  before  us — 
golden-winged,  angel-faced,  heart-warming,  and 
make  an  Elysium  in  which  the  dreaming  soul 
bathes,  and  feels  translated  to  another  existence ; 
and  then — sudden  as  night,  or  a  cloud — a  word,  a 
step,  a  thought,  a  memory  will  chase  them  away, 
like  scared  deer  vanishing  over  a  gray  horizon  of 
moor-land ! 

I  know  not  justly,  if  it  be  a  weakness  or  a  sin 

•  Voyage  autour  de  Ma  Chambre. 


76  EEVERIE8  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

to  create  these  phantoms  that  we  love,  and  to  group 
them  into  a  paradise — soul-created.  But  if  it  is  a 
sin,  it  is  a  sweet  and  enchanting  sin  ;  and  if  it  is  a 
weakness,  it  is  a  strong  and  stirring  weakness.  If 
this  heart  is  sick  of  the  falsities  that  meet  it  at 
every  hand,  and  is  eager  to  spend  that  power 
which  nature  has  ribbed  it  with,  on  some  object 
worthy  of  its  fulness  and  c  epth, — shall  it  not  feel  a 
rich  relief, — nay  more,  an  exercise  in  keeping  with 
its  end,  if  it  flow  out — strong  as  a  tempest,  wild  as 
a  rushing  river,  upon  those  ideal  creations,  which 
imagination  invents,  and  which  are  tempered  by 
our  best  sense  of  beauty,  purity,  and  grace  ? 

Useless,  do  you  say  ?  Aye,  it  is  as  useless 

as  the  pleasure  of  looking  hour  upon  hour,  over 
bright  landscapes ;  it  is  as  useless  as  the  rapt 
enjoyment  of  listening  with  heart  full  and  eyes 
brimming,  to  such  music  as  the  Miserere  at  Rome ; 
it  is  as  useless  as  the  ecstacy  of  kindling  your  soul 
into  fervor  and  love,  and  madness,  over  pages  that 
reek  with  genius. 

There  are  indeed  base-moulded  souls  who  know 
nothing  of  this ;  they  laugh ;  they  sneer ;  they  even 
affect  to  pity.  Just  so  the  Huns  under  the  aveng- 
ing Attila,  who  had  been  used  to  foul  cookery  and 
steaks  stewed  under  their  saddles,  laughed  brutally 
at  the  spiced  banquets  of  an  Apicius  ! 

No,  this  phantom-making  is  no  sin  ;  or  if  it 

be,  it  is  sinning  with  a  soul  so  full,  so  earnest,  that 
it  can  cry  to  Heaven  cheerily,  and  sure  of  a  gracious 
hearing — -peccavi — mineric&rde  ! 


ANTHRACITE.  77 

But  my  fire  is  in  a  glow,  a  pleasant  glow, 
throwing  a  tranquil,  steady  light  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  my  garret.  How  unlike  it  is,  to  the 
flashing  play  of  the  sea-coal ! — unlike  as  an  un- 
steady, uncertain-working  heart  to  the  true  and 
earnest  constancy  of  one  cheerful  and  right. 

After  all,  thought  I,  give  me  such  a  heart ;  not 
bent  on  vanities,  not  blazing  too  sharp  with  sensi- 
bility, not  throwing  out  coquettish  jets  of  flame, 
not  wavering,  and  meaningless  with  pretended 
warmth,  but  open,  glowing  and  strong.  Its  dark 
shades  and  angles  it  may  have ;  for  what  is  a  soul 
worth  that  does  not  take  a  slaty  tinge  from  those 
griefs  that  chill  the  blood  ?  Yet  still  the  fire  is 
gleaming ;  you  see  it  in  the  crevices ;  and  anon  it 
will  give  radiance  to  the  whole  mass. 

It  hurts  the  eyes,  this  fire  ;  and  I  draw  up 

a  screen  painted  over  with  rough,  but  graceful 
figures. 

The  true  heart  wears  always  the  veil  of  modesty 
— (not  of  prudery,  which  is  a  dingy,  iron,  repulsive 
screen.)'  It  will  not  allow  itself  to  be  looked  on  too 
near — it  might  scorch ;  but  through  the  veil  you 
feel  the  warmth ;  and  through  the  pretty  figtlres 
that  modesty  will  robe  itself  in,  you  can  see  all  the 
while  the  golden  outlines,  and  by  that  token,  you 
know  that  it  is  glowing  and  burning  with  a  pure 
and  steady  flame. 

With  such  a  heart  the  mind  fuses  naturally — a 
holy  and  heated  fusion ;  they  work  together  like 


78  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

twins-born.    With  such  a  heart,  as  Raphael  says  to 
Adam, 

Love  hath  hia  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious. 

But  let  me  distinguish  this  heart  from  your 
clay-cold,  lukewarm,  half-hearted  soul ; — consid- 
erate, because  ignorant ;  judicious,  because  pos- 
sessed of  no  latent  fires  that  need  a  curb  ;  prudish, 
because  with  no  warm  blood  to  tempt.  This  sort 
of  soul  may  pass  scatheless  through  the  fiery  fur- 
nace of  life  ;  strong,  only  in  its  weakness  ;  pure, 
because  of  its  failings ;  and  good,  only  by  negation. 
It  may  triumph  over  love,  and  sin,  and  death ;  but 
it  will  be  a  triumph  of  the  beast,  which  has  neither 
passions  to  subdue,  or  energy  to  attack,  or  hope  to 
quench. 

Let  us  come  back  to  the  steady  and  earnest 
heart,  glowing  like  my  anthracite  coal. 

I  fancy  I  see  such  a  one  now ; — the  eye  is  deep 
and  reaches  back  to  the  spirit ;  it  is  not  the  trading 
eye,  weighing  your  purse ;  it  is  not  the  worldly 
eye,  weighing  position ;  it  is  not  the  beastly  eye, 
weighing  your  appearance ;  it  is  the  heart's  eye, 
weighing  your  soul ! 

It  is  full  of  deep,  tender,  and  earnest  feeling. 
It  is  an  eye,  which  looked  on  once,  you  long  to 
look  on  again  ;  it  is  an  eye  which  will  haunt  your 
dreams, — an  eye  which  will  give  a  color,  in  spite 
of  you,  to  all  your  reveries.  It  is  an  eye  which  lies 
before  you  in  your  future,  like  a  star  in  the  mar- 
iner's heaven  ;  by  it,  unconsciously,  and  from  force 


ANTHRACITE.  79 

of  deep  soul-habit,  you  take  all  your  observations. 
It  is  meek  and  quiet ;  but  it  is  full,  as  a  spring 
that  gushes  in  flood,  an  Aphrodite  and  a  Mercury 
-^a  Vaucluse  and  a  Clitumnus. 

The  face  is  an  angel-face  ;  no  matter  for  curious 
lines  of  beauty  ;  no  matter  for  popular  talk  of  pret- 
tiness ;  no  matter  for  its  angles,  or  its  proportions ; 
no  matter  for  its  color  or  its  form — the  soul  is  there, 
illuminating  every  feature,  burnishing  every  point, 
hallowing  every  surface.  It  tells  of  honesty,  sin- 
cerity, and  worth ;  it  tells  of  truth  and  virtue ; — 
and  you  clasp  the  image  to  your  heart,  as  the  re- 
ceived ideal  of  your  fondest  dreams. 

The  figure  may  be  this  or  that,  it  may  be  tall  or 
short,  it  matters  nothing, — the  heart  is  there.  The 
talk  may  be  soft  or  low,  serious  or  piquant — a  free 
and  honest  soul  is  warming  and  softening  it  all. 
As  you  speak,  it  speaks  back  again ;  as  you  think,  it 
thinks  again — (not  in  conjunction,  but  in  the  same 
sign  of  the  Zodiac ;)  as  you  love,  it  loves  in  return. 

It  is  the  heart  for  a  sister,  and  happy  is  the 

man  who  can  claim  such  I  The  warmth  that  lies 
in  it  is  not  only  generous,  but  religious,  genial,  de- 
votional, tender,  self-sacrificing,  and  looking  heav- 
enward. 

A  man  without  some  sort  of  religion,  is  at  best 
a  poor  reprobate,  the  foot-ball  of  destiny,  with  no  tie 
linking  him  to  infinity,  and  the  wondrous  eternity 
that  is  begun  with  him  ;  but  a  woman  without  it, 
is  even  worse — a  flame  without  heat,  a  rainbow 
without  color,  a  flower  without  perfume  ! 


80  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

A  man  may  in  some  sort  tie  his  frail  hopes  and 
honors,  with  weak,  shifting  ground-tackle  to  busk 
ness,  or  to  the  world ;  but  a  woman  without  that 
anchor  which  they  call  Faith,  is  adrift,  and 
a-wreck !  A  man  may  clumsily  contrive  a  kind 
of  moral  responsibility,  out  of  his  relations  to  man- 
kind ;  but  a  woman  in  her  comparatively  isolated 
sphere,  where  affection  and  not  purpose  is  the  con- 
trolling motive,  can  find  no  basis  for  any  system  of 
right  action,  but  that  of  spiritual  faith.  A  maq 
may  craze  his  thought  and  his  brain,  to  trustful- 
ness in  such  poor  harborage  as  Fame  and  Reputa- 
tion may  stretch  before  him  ;  but  a  woman — where 
can  she  put  her  hope  in  storms,  if  not  in  Heaven  ? 

And  that  sweet  trustfulness — that  abiding  love 
— that  enduring  hope,  mellowing  every  page  and 
scene  of  life,  lighting  them  with  pleasantest  ra- 
diance, when  the  world-storms  break  like  an  army 
with  smoking  cannon — what  can  bestow  it  all,  but 
a  holy  soul-tie  to  what  is  above  the  storms,  and  to 
what  is  stronger  than  an  army  with  cannon  ?  Who 
that  has  enjoyed  the  counsel  and  the  love  of  a 
Christian  mother,  but  will  echo  the  thought  with 

energy,  and  hallow  it  with  a  tear  ? et  moi,  jo 

pleurs  ! 

My  fire  is  now  a  mass  of  red-hot  coal.  The 
whole  atmosphere  of  my  room  is  warm.  The  heart 
that  with  its  glow  can  light  up,  and  warm  a  garret 
with  loose  casements  and  shattered  roof,  is  capable 
of  the  best  love — domestic  love.  I  draw  farther 
off,  and  the  images  upon  the  screen  change.  The 


ANTHRACITE.  81 

warmth,  the  hour,  the  quiet,  create  a  home  feeling  ; 
and  that  feeling,  quick  as  lightning,  has  stolen  from 
the  world  of  fancy  (a  Promethean  theft,)  a  home 
object,  about  which  my  musings  go  on  to  drape 
themselves  in  luxurious  reverie. 

There  she  sits,  by  the  corner  of  the  fire,  in 

a  neat  home  dress,  of  sober,  yet  most  adorning 
color.  A  little  bit  of  lace  ruffle  is  gathered  about 
the  neck,  by  a  blue  ribbon ;  and  the  ends  of  the 
ribbon  are  crossed  under  the  dimpling  chin,  and 
are  fastened  neatly  by  a  simple,  unpretending 
brooch — your  gift.  The  arm,  a  pretty  taper  arm, 
lies  over  the  carved  elbow  of  the  oaken  chair ;  the 
hand,  white  and  delicate,  sustains  a  little  home 
volume  that  hangs  from  her  fingers.  The  forefinger 
is  between  the  leaves,  and  the  others  lie  in  relief 
upon  the  dark  embossed  cover.  She  repeats  in  a 
silver  voice,  a  line  that  has  attracted  her  fancy ; 
and  you  listen — or  at  any  rate,  you  seem  to  listen — 
with  your  eyes  now  on  the  lips,  now  on  the  fore- 
head, and  now  on  the  finger,  where  glitters  like  a 
star,  the  marriage  ring — little  gold  band,  at  which, 
she  does  not  chafe,  that  tells  you, — she  is  yours  ! 

Weak  testimonial,  if  that  were  all  that  told 

it !  The  eye,  the  voice,  the  look,  the  heart,  tells 
you  stronger  and  better,  that  she  is  yours.  And  a 
feeling  within,  where  it  lies  you  know  not,  and 
whence  it  comes  you  know  not,  but  sweeping  over 
heart  and  brain,  like  a  fire-flood,  tells  you  too,  that 
you  are  hers  !  Irremediably  bound  as  Massinger'a 
Hortensio  : 


82  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

I  am  subject  to  another's  will,  and  can 
Nor  speak,  nor  do,  without  permission  from  her  ! 

The  fire  is  warm  as  ever ;  what  length  of  heat 
in  this  hard  burning  anthracite  !  It  has  scarce 
sunk  yet  to  the  second  bar  of  the  grate,  though  the 
clock  upon  the  church-tower  has  tolled  e'even. 

— Aye, — mused  I,  gaily — such  a  heart  does  not 
grow  faint,  it  does  not  spend  itself  in  idle  putt's  of 
blaze,  it  does  not  become  chilly  with  the  pansing 
years  ;  but  it  gains  and  grows  in  strength,  and  heat, 
until  the  fire  of  life  is  covered  over  with  the  ashes 
of  death.  Strong  or  hot  as  it  may  be  at  the  first,  it 
loses  nothing.  It  may  not  indeed,  as  time  ad- 
vances, throw  out,  like  the  coal-fire,  when  new-lit, 
jets  of  blue  sparkling  flame  ;  it  may  not  continue 
to  bubble,  and  gush  like  a  fountain  at  its  source, 
but  it  will  become  a  strong  river  of  flowing  char- 
ities. 

Clitumnus  breaks  from  under  the  Tuscan  moun- 
tains, almost  a  flood ;  on  a  glorious  spring  day  I 
leaned  down  and  tasted  the  water,  as  it  boiled  from 
its  sources ; — the  little  temple  of  white  marble, — 
the  mountain  sides  gray  with  olive  orchards, — the 
white  streak  of  road, — the  tall  poplars  of  the  river 
margin  were  glistening  in  the  bright  Italian  sun- 
light, around  me.  Later,  I  saw  it  when  it  had 
become  a  river, — still  clear  and  strong,  flowing 
serenely  between  its  prairie  banks,  on  which  the 
white  cattle  of  the  valley  browsed ;  and  still  farther 
down,  I  welcomed  it,  where  it  joins  the  Arno, — 
flowing  slowly  under  wooded  shores,  skirting  the 


ANTHRACITE.  83 

fair  Florence,  and  the  bounteous  fields  of  the  bright 
Cascino  ; — gathering  strength  and  volume,  till  be- 
tween Pisa  and  Leghorn, — in  sight  of  the  wondrous 
Leaning  Tower,  and  the  ship-masts  of  the  Tuscan, 
port,  it  gave  its  waters  to  its  life's  grave — the  sea. 

The  recollection  blended  sweetly  now  with  my 
musings,  over  my  garret  grate,  and  offered  a  flow- 
ing image,  to  bear  along  upon  its  bosom  the  affec- 
tions that  were  grouping  in  my  Reverie. 

It  is  a  strange  force  of  the  mind  and  of  the 
fancy,  that  can  set  the  objects  which  are  closest  to 
the  heart  far  down  the  lapse  of  time.  Even  now, 
as  the  fire  fades  slightly,  and  sinks  slowly  towards 
the  bar,  which  is  the  dial  of  my  hours,  I  seem  to 
see  that  image  of  love  which  has  played  about  the 
fire-glow  of  my  grate — years  hence.  It  still  covers 
the  same  warm,  trustful,  religious  heart.  Trials 
have  tried  it ;  afflictions  have  weighed  upon  it ; 
danger  has  scared  it ;  and  death  is  coming  near  to 
subdue  it ;  but  still  it  is  the  same. 

The  fingers  are  thinner;  the  face  has  lines  of 
care,  and  sorrow,  crossing  each  other  in  a  web- 
work,  that  makes  .the  golden  tissue  of  humanity. 
But  the  heart  is  fond,  and  steady ;  it  is  the  same 
dear  heart,  the  same  self-sacrificing  heart,  warming 
like  a  fire,  all  around  it.  Affliction  has  tempered 
joy;  and  joy  adorned  affliction.  Life  and  all  its 
troubles  have  become  distilled  into  an  holy  incense, 
rising  ever  from  your  fireside, — an  offering  to  your 
household  gods. 

Tour  dreams  of  reputation,  your  swift  determi- 


84  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

nation,  your  impulsive  pride,  your  deep  uttered 
vows  to  win  a  name,  have  all  sobered  into  affection 
• — have  all  blended  into  that  glow  of  feeling,  which 
finds  its  centre,  and  hope,  and  joy  in  HOME.  From 
my  soul  I  pity  him  whose  soul  does  not  leap  at  the 
mere  utterance  of  that  name. 

A  home ! — it  is  the  bright,  blessed,  adorable 
phantom  which  sits  highest  on  the  sunny  horizon 
that  girdeth  Life !  "When  shall  it  be  reached  ? 
When  shall  it  cease  to  be  a  glittering  day-dream, 
and  become  fully  and  fairly  yours  ? 

It  is  not  the  house,  though  that  may  have  its 
charms  ;  nor  the  fields  carefully  tilled,  and  streaked 
with  your  own  foot-paths ; — nor  the  trees,  though 
their  shadow  be  to  you  like  that  of  a  great  rock  in 
a  weary  land ; — nor  yet  is  it  the  fireside,  with  its 
sweet  blaze-play ; — nor  the  pictures  which  tell  of 
loved  ones,  nor  the  cherished  books, — but  more  far 
than  all  these — it  is  the  PRESENCE.  The  Lares  of 
your  worship  are  there ;  the  altar  of  your  con- 
fidence there ;  the  end  of  your  worldly  faith  is 
there ;  and  adorning  it  all,  and  sending  your 
blood  in*  passionate  flow,  is  the  ecstasy  of  the 
conviction,  that  there  at  least  you  are  beloved ; 
that  there  you  are  understood ;  that  there  your 
errors  will  meet  ever  with  gentlest  forgiveness ; 
that  there  your  troubles  will  be  smiled  away; 
that  there  you  may  unburden  your  soul,  fearless  of 
harsh,  unsympathizing  ears ;  and  that  there  you 
may  be  entirely  and  joyfully — yourself ! 

There  may  be  those  of  coarse  mould — and  I 


ANTHRACITE.  85 

have  seen  such  even  in  the  disguise  of  women — who 
will  reckon  these  feelings  puling  sentiment.  God 
pity  them  ! — as  they  have  need  of  pity. 

That  image  by  the  fireside,  calm,  loving, 

joyful,  is  there  still :  it  goes  not,  however  my  spirit 
tosses,  because  my  wish,  and  every  will,  keep  it 
there,  unerring. 

The  fire  shows  through  the  screen,  yellow  and 
warm,  as  a  harvest  sun.  It  is  in  its  best  age,  and 
that  age  is  ripeness. 

A  ripe  heart ! — now  I  know  what  Wordsworth 
meant,  when  he  said, 

The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  aa  summer  duet, 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

The  town  clock  is  striking  midnight.  The  cold 
of  the  night-wind  is  urging  its  way  in  at  the  door 
and  window-crevice ;  the  fire  has  sunk  almost  to 
the  third  bar  of  the  grate.  Still  my  dream  tires 
not,  but  wraps  fondly  round  that  image, — now  in 
the  far  off,  chilling  mists  of  age,  growing  sainted. 
Love  has  blended  into  reverence  ;  passion  has  sub- 
sided into  joyous  content. 

And  what  if  age  comes,  said  I,  in  a  new 

flush  of  excitation, — what  else  proves  the  wine  ? 
What  else  gives  inner  strength,  and  knowledge, 
and  a  steady  pilot-hand,  to  steer  your  boat  out 
boldly  upon  that  shoreless  sea,  where  the  river  of 
life  is  running  ?  Let  the  white  ashes  gather ;  let 
the  silver  hair  lie,  where  lay  the  auburn ;  let  the 
eye  gleam  farther  back,  and  dimmer;  it  is  but 


86  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

retreating  toward  the  pure  sky-depths,  an  usher  to 
the  land  where  you  will  follow  after. 

It  is  quite  cold,  and  I  take  away  the  screen  alto- 
gether ;  there  is  a  little  glow  yet,  but  presently  the 
coal  slips  down  below  the  third  bar,  with  a  rum- 
bling sound, — like  that  of  coarse  gravel  falling  into 
a  new-dug  grave. 

She  is  gone  ! 

Well,  the  heart  has  burned  fairly,  evenly,  gen- 
erously, while  there  was  mortality  to  kindle  it ; 
eternity  will  surely  kindle  it  better. 

Tears  indeed ;  but  they  are  tears  of  thanks- 
giving, of  resignation,  and  of  hope  ! 

And  the  eyes,  full  of  those  tears,  which  minis- 
tering angels  bestow,  climb  with  quick  vision,  upon 
the  angelic  ladder,  and  open  upon  the  futurity 
where  she  has  entered,  and  upon  the  country,  which 
she  enjoys. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  sounds  of  life  are  dead. 

You  are  in  the  death  chamber  of  life ;  but  you 
are  also  in  the  death  chamber  of  care.  The  world 
seems  sliding  backward;  and  hope  and  you  are 
sliding  forward.  The  clouds,  the  agonies,  the  vain 
expectancies,  the  braggart  noise,  the  fears,  now 
vanish  behind  the  curtain  of  the  Past,  and  of  the 
Night.  They  roll  from  your  soul  like  a  load. 

In  the  dimness  of  what  seems  the  ending  Pres- 
ent, you  reach  out  your  prayerful  hands  toward 
that  boundless  Future,  where  God's  eye  lifts  over 
the  horizon,  like  sunrise  on  the  ocean.  Do  you 
recognize  it  as  an  earnest  of  something  better  ? 


ANTHRACITE.  87 

Aye,  if  the  heart  has  been  pure,  and  steady, — burn- 
ing like  my  fire — it  has  learned  it  without  seeming 
to  learn.  Faith  has  grown  upon  it,  as  the  blossom 
grows  upon  the  bud  or  the  flower  upon  the  slow- 
lifting  stalk. 

Cares  cannot  come  into  the  dream-land  where  I 
live.  They  sink  with  the  dying  street  noise,  and 
vanish  with  the  embers  of  my  fire.  Even  Ambition, 
with  its  hot  and  shifting  flame,  is  all  gone  out. 
The  heart  in  the  dimness  of  the  fading  fire-glow  is 
all  itself.  The  memory  of  what  good  things  have 
come  over  it  in  the  troubled  youth-life,  bear  it  up  ; 
and  hope  and  faith  bear  it  on.  There  is  no  extrav- 
agant pulse-glow ;  there  is  no  mad  fever  of  the 
brain  ;  but  only  the  soul,  forgetting — for  once — all, 
save  its  destinies,  and  its  capacities  for  good.  And 
it  mounts  high  and  higher  on  these  wings  of 
thought ;  and  hope  burns  stronger  and  stronger  out 
of  the  ashes  of  decaying  life  until  the  sharp  edge 
of  the  grave  seems  but  a  foot-scraper  at  the  wicket 
of  Elysium ! 

But  what  is  paper ;  and  what  are  words  ? 
Vain  things  !  The  soul  leaves  them  behind  ;  the 
pen  staggers  like  a  starveling  cripple ;  and  your 
heart  is  leaving  it,  a  whole  length  of  the  life-course 
behind.  The  soul's  mortal  longings, — its  poor 
baffled  hopes,  are  dim  now  in  the  light  of  those 
infinite  longings,  which  spread  over  it,  soft  and 
holy  as  day-dawn.  Eternity  has  stretched  a  corner 
of  its  mantle  toward  you,  and  the  breath  of  its 
waving  fringe  is  like  a  gale  of  Araby. 


88  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

A  little  rumbling,  and  a  last  plunge  of  the  cin- 
ders within  my  grate,  startled  me,  and  dragged 
back  my  fancy  from  my  flower  chase  beyond  the 
Phlegethon,  to  the  white  ashes,  that  were  now 
thick  all  over  the  darkened  coals. 

— And  this — mused  I — is  only  a  bachelor- 
dream  about  a  pure,  and  loving  heart !  And  to- 
morrow comes  cankerous  life  again  : is  it  wished 

for?     Or  if  not  wished  for,  is  the  not  wishing, 
wicked  ? 

Will  dreams  satisfy,  reach  high  as  they  can  ? 
Are  we  not  after  all  poor  grovelling  mortals,  tied  to 
earth,  and  to  each  other ;  are  there  not  sympathies, 
and  hopes,  and  affections  which  can  only  find  their 
issue,  and  blessing,  in  fellow  absorption  ?  Does 
not  the  heart,  steady,  and  pure  as  it  may  be,  and 
mounting  on  soul  flights  often  as  it  dare,  want  a 
human  sympathy,  perfectly  indulged,  to  make  it 
healthful  ?  Is  there  not  a  fount  of  love  for  this 
world,  as  there  is  a  fount  of  love  for  the  other  ? 
Is  there  not  a  certain  store  of  tenderness,  cooped  in 
this  heart,  which  must,  and  will  be  lavished,  before 
the  end  comes  ?  Does  it  not  plead  with  the  judg- 
ment, and  make  issue  with  prudence,  year  after 
year  ?  Does  it  not  dog  your  steps  all  through  your 
social  pilgrimage,  setting  up  its  claims  in  forms 
fresh,  and  odorous  as  new-blown  heath  bells,  sayinrr, 
— come  away  from  the  heartless,  the  factitious,  the 
vain,  and  measure  your  heart  not  by  its  constraints, 
but  by  its  fulness,  and  by  its  depth  ? — let  it  run, 
and  be  joyous ! 


ANTHRACITE.  gg 

la  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your  harsh 
night-dreams,  like  a  taunting  fiend,  whispering- 
be  satisfied  ;  keep  your  heart  from  running  over ; 
bridle  those  affections ;  there  is  nothing  worth 
loving  ? 

Does  not  some  sweet  being  hover  over  your 
spirit  of  reverie  like  a  beckoning  angel  crowned 
with  halo,  saying — hope  on,  hope  ever ;  the  heart 
and  I  are  kindred ;  our  mission  will  be  fulfilled ; 
nature  shall  accomplish  its  purpose  ;  the  soul  shall 
have  its  Paradise  ? 

1  threw  myself  upon  my  bed :  and  as  my 

thoughts  ran  over  the  definite,  sharp  business  of 
the  morrow,  my  Reverie,  and  its  glowing  images, 
that  made  my  heart  bound,  swept  away,  like  those 
fleecy  rain  clouds  of  August,  on  which  the  sun 
paints  rain-bows — driving  Southward,  by  a  cool, 
rising  wind  from  the  North. 

1  wonder, — thought  I,  as  I  dropped  asleep. 

— if  a  married  man  with  his  sentiment  made  actual, 
is  after  all,  as  happy  as  we  poor  fellows,  in  our 
dreams  ? 


8» 


— « — 

LIGHTED. 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR. 


I  DO  not  believe  that  there  was  ever  an  Aunt 
Tabithy  who  could  abide  cigars.  My  Aunt 
Tabithy  hated  them  with  a  peculiar  hatred.  She 
was  not  only  insensible  to  the  rich  flavor  of  a 
fresh  rolling  volume  of  smoke,  but  she  could  not 
so  much  as  tolerate  the  sight  of  the  rich  russet 
color  of  an  Havana-labelled  box.  It  put  her  out  of 
all  conceit  with  Guava  jelly,  to  find  it  advertised 
in  the  same  tongue,  and  with  the  same  Cuban 
coarseness  of  design. 

She  could  see  no  good  in  a  cigar. 

"  But  by  your  leave,  my  aunt,"  said  I  to  her,  the 
other  morning, — "  there  is  very  much  that  is  good 
in  a  cigar." 

My  aunt  who  was  sweeping,  tossed  her  head, 
and  with  it,  her  curls — done  up  in  paper. 

"  It  is  a  very  excellent  matter,"  continued  I, 
puffing. 

"  It  is  dirty,"  said  my  aunt. 


94  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"  It  is  clean  and  sweet,"  said  I ;  "  and  a  most 
pleasant  soother  of  disturbed  feelings ;  and  a  capi- 
tal companion ;  and  a  comforter "  and  I  stop- 
ped to  puff. 

"  You  know  it  is  a  filthy  abomination,"  said  my 
aunt, — "  and  you  ought  to  be ,"  and  she  stop- 
ped to  put  up  one  of  her  curls,  which  with  the 
energy  of  her  gesticulation  had  fallen  out  of  its 
place. 

"  It  suggests  quiet  thoughts  " — continued  I, — • 
"  and  makes  a  man  meditative  ;  and  gives  a  current 
to  his  habits  of  contemplation, — as  I  can  show 
you,"  said  I,  warming  with  the  theme. 

My  aunt,  still  fingering  her  papers, — with  the 
pin  in  her  mouth, — gave  a  most  incredulous  shrug. 

"  Aunt  Tabithy  " — said  I,  and  gave  two  or  three 
violent,  consecutive  puffs, — "  Aunt  Tabithy,  I  can 
make  up  such  a  series  of  reflections  out  of  ray  cigar, 
as  would  do  your  heart  good  to  listen  to  !  " 

"  About  what,  pray  ?  "  said  my  aunt,  contemp- 
tuously. 

"  About  love,"  said  I,  "  which  is  easy  enough 
lighted,  but  wants  constancy  to  keep  it  in  a  glow ; 
— or  about  matrimony,  which  has  a  great  deal  of 
fire  in  the  beginning,  but  it  is  a  fire  that  consumes 
all  that  feeds  the  blaze ; — or  about  life,"  continued 
I  earnestly, — "  which  at  the  first  is  fresh  and  odor- 
ous, but  ends  shortly  in  a  withered  cinder,  that  is 
fit  only  for  the  ground." 

My  aunt  who  was  forty  and  unmarried,  finished 
her  curl  with  a  flip  of  the  fingers, — resumed  her 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR,  95 

hold  of  the  broom,  and  leaned  her  chin  upon  one 
end  of  it  with  an  expression  of  some  wonder,  some 
curiosity,  and  a  great  deal  of  expectation. 

I  could  have  wished  my  aunt  had  been  a  little 
less  curious,  or  that  I  had  been  a  little  less  com- 
municative :  for  though  it  was  all  honestly  said  on 
my  part,  yet  my  contemplations  bore  that  vague, 
shadowy,  and  delicious  sweetness,  that  it  seemed 
impossible  to  put  them  into  words, — least  of  all, 
at  the  bidding  of  an  old  lady,  leaning  on  a  broom- 
handle. 

"  Give  me  time,  Aunt  Tabithy," — said  Iv — "  a 
good  dinner,  and  after  it  a  good  cigar,  and  I  will 
serve  you  such  a  sun-shiny  sheet  of  reverie,  all 
twisted  out  of  the  smoke,  as  will  make  your  kind 
old  heart  ache  !  " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  in  utter  contempt,  either  of  my 
mention  of  the  dinner  or  of  the  smoke,  or  of  the 
old  heart,  commenced  sweeping  furiously. 

"  If  I  do  not " — continued  I,  anxious  to  appease 
her, — "  If  I  do  not,  Aunt  Tabithy,  it  shall  be  my 
last  cigar ;  (Aunt  Tabithy  stopped  sweeping)  and 
all  my  tobacco  money,  (Aunt  Tabithy  drew  near 
me)  shall  go  to  buy  ribbons  for  my  most  respect- 
able, and  worthy  Aunt  Tabithy  ;  and  a  kinder  per- 
son could  not  have  them ;  or  one,"  continued  I, 
with  a  generous  puff,  "whom  they  would  more 
adorn." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  gave  me  a  half-playful, — half- 
thankful  nudge. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  bargain  was  struck ; 


96  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

my  part  of  it  is  already  stated.  On  her  part,  Aunt 
Tubithy  was  to  allow  me,  in  case  of  my  success,  an 
evening  cigar  unmolested,  upon  the  front  porch, 
underneath  her  favorite  rose-tree.  It  was  conclud- 
ed, I  say,  as  I  sat ;  the  smoke  of  my  cigar  rising 
gracefully  around  my  Aunt  Tabithy's  curls ; — our 
right  hands  joined ; — my  left  was  holding  my  ci- 
gar, while  in  hers,  was  tightly  grasped — her  broom- 
stick. 

And  this  Reverie,  to  make  the  matter  short, 
is  what  came  of  the  contract. 


Lighted  with  a  Coal. 

I  TAKE  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  and  setting1 
the  end  of  my  cigar  against  it,  puft — and  puff 
again  ;  but  there  is  no  smoke.  There  is  very  little 
hope  of  lighting  from  a  dead  coal ; — no  more  hope, 
thought  I, — than  of  kindling  one's  heart  into  flame, 
by  contact  with  a  dead  heart. 

To  kindle,  there  must  be  warmth  and  life ;  and 
I  sat  for  a  moment,  thinking, — even  before  I  lit  my 
cigar, — on  the  vanity  and  folly  of  those  poor,  pur- 
blind fellows,  who  go  on  puffing  for  half  a  lifetime, 
against  dead  coals.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Heaven, 
in  its  mercy,  has  made  their  senses  so  obtuse,  that 
they  know  not  when  their  souls  are  in  a  flame,  or 
when  they  are  dead.  I  can  imagine  none  but  the 
most  moderate  satisfaction,  in  continuing  to  love, 
what  has  got  no  ember  of  love  withli;  it  The 
Ituiiaiis  have  a  very  seutiiule  sort  of  a  proverb, — 
9 


gg  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

amare,  e  non  esscre  amato,  e  tempo  perduto : — to  lovev 
and  not  be  loved,  is  time  lost. 

I  take  a  kind  of  rude  pleasure  in  flinging  down 
a  coal  that  has  no  life  in  it.  And  it  seemed  to  me, 
— and  may  Heaven  pardon  the  ill-nature  that  be- 
longs to  the  thought, — that  there  would  be  much 
of  the  same  kind  of  satisfaction,  in  dashing  from 
you  a  lukewarm  creature,  covered  over  with  the 
yellow  ashes  of  old  combustion,  that  with  ever  so 
much  attention,  and  the  nearest  approach  of  the 
lips,  never  shows  signs  of  fire.  May  Heaven  forgive 
me  again,  but  I  should  long  to  break  away,  though 
the  marriage  bonds  held  me,  and  see  what  liveli- 
ness was  to  be  found  elsewhere. 

I  have  seen  before  now  a  creeping  vine  try  to 
grow  up  against  a  marble  wall ;  it  shoots  out  its 
tendrils  in  all  directions,  seeking  some  crevice  by 
which  to  fasten  and  to  climb  ; — looking  now  alx>ve 
and  now  below, — twining  upon  itself, — reaching 
farther  up,  but  after  all,  finding  no  good  foothold, 
and  falling  away  as  if  in  despair.  But  nature  is 
not  unkind ;  twining  things  were  made  to  twine. 
The  longing  tendrils  take  new  strength  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  in  the  showers,  and  shoot  out  toward 
some  hospitable  trunk.  They  fasten  easily  to  the 
kindly  roughness  of  the  bark,  and  stretch  up,  drag- 
ging after  them  the  vine  ;  which  by  and  by,  from 
the  topmost  bough,  will  nod  its  blossoms  over  at  the 
marble  wall,  that  refused  it  succor,  as  if  it  said — 
stand  there  in  your  pride  cold,  white  wall !  we, 
the  tree  and  I  are  kindred,  it  the  helper,  and  I  the 


LIGHTED    WITH  A   COAL.  99 

helped ;  and  bound  fast  together,  we  riot  in  the 
sunshine,  and  'in  gladness. 

The  thought  of  this  image  made  me  search  for 
a  new  coal  that  should  have  some  brightness  in  it. 
There  may  be  a  white  ash  over  it  indeed  ;  as  you 
will  find  tender  feelings  covered  with  the  mask  of 
courtesy,  or  with  the  veil  of  fear ;  but  with  a  breath 
it  all  flies  off,  and  exposes  the  heat,  and  the  glow 
that  you  are  seeking. 

At  the  first  touch,  the  delicate  edges  of  the  cigar 
crimple,  a  thin  line  of  smoke  rises, — doubtfully  for 
a  while,  and  with  a  coy  delay  ;  but  after  a  hearty 
jespiration  or  two,  it  grows  strong,  and  my  cigar  is 
fairly  lighted. 

That  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke,  and  of  the 
fragrant  leaf  is  very  grateful ;  it  has  a  bloom  about 
it,  that  you  wish  might  last.  It  is  like  your  first 
love, — fresh,  genial,  and  rapturous.  Like  that,  it 
fills  up  all  the  craving  of  your  soul ;  and  the  light, 
blue  wreaths  of  smoke,  like  the  roseate  clouds  that 
hang  around  the  morning  of  your  heart  life,  cut 
you  off  from  the  chill  atmosphere  of  mere  worldly 
companionship,  and  make  a  gorgeous  firmament 
for  your  fancy  to  riot  in. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later,  and  manlier 
passions,  into  which  judgment  must  be  thrusting 
its  cold  tones,  and  when  all  the  sweet  tumult  of 
your  heart  has  mellowed  into  the  sober  ripeness  of 
affection.  But  I  mean  that  boyish  burning,  which 
belongs  to  every  poor  mortal's  lifetime,  and  which 
bewilders  Mm  with  the  thought  that  he  has  reached 


100  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

the  highest  point  of  human  joy,  before  he  has  tasted 
any  of  that  bitterness,  from  which  alone  our  high- 
est human  joys  have  spring.  I  mean  the  time, 
when  you  cut  initials  with  your  jack-knife  on  the 
smooth  bark  of  beech  trees  ;  and  went  moping  un- 
der the  long  shadows  at  sunset;  and  thought 
Louise  the  prettiest  name  in  the  wide  world ;  and 
picked  flowers  to  leave  at  her  door ;  and  stole  out 
at  night  to  watch  the  light  in  her  window ;  and 
read  such  novels  as  those  about  Helen  Mar,  or  Char- 
lotte, to  give  some  adequate  expression  to  your 
agonized  feelings. 

At  such  a  stage,  you  are  quite  certain  that  you 
a*deeply,  and  madly  in  love  ;  you  persist  in  the 
face  of  heaven,  and  earth.  You  would  like  to 
meet  the  individual  who  dared  to  doubt  it. 

You  think  she  has  got  the  tidiest,  and  jauntiest 
little  figure  that  ever  was  seen.  You  thiuk  back 
upon  some  time  when  in  your  games  of  forfeit,  you 
gained  a  kiss  from  those  lips;  and  it  seems  as  if 
the  kiss  was  hanging  on  you  yet,  and  warming  you 
all  over.  And  then  again,  it  seems  so  strange  that 
your  lips  did  really  touch  hers  !  You  half  question 
if  it  could  have  been  actually  so, — and  how  you 
could  have  dared  ; — and  you  wonder  if  you  would 
have  courage  to  do  the  same  thing  again  ? — and 
upon  second  thoughts,  are  quite  sure  you  would, — 
and  snap  your  fingers  at  the  thought  of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear ;  and  iu 
the  school  room,  when  the  hat  is  hung  up — what 
curls — golden  curls,  worth  a  hundred  Golcondas .' 


LIGHTED    WITH  A   COAL.  101 

How  brav3ly  you  study  the  top  lines  of  the  spell- 
ing book — that  your  eyes  may  run  over  the  edge 
of  the  cover,  without  the  schoolmaster's  notice,  and 
feast  upon  her ! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run  away 
with  her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda,  in  the  Chil- 
dren of  the  Abbey  ; — and  then  you  might  ride  up 
on  a  splendid  black  horse,  and  draw  a  pistol,  or 
blunderbuss,  and  shoot  the  villains,  and  carry  her 
back,  all  in  tears,  fainting,  and  languishing  upon 
your  shoulder ; — and  have  her  father  (who  is  Judge 
of  the  County  Court,)  take  your  hand  in  both  of 
his,  and  make  some  eloquent  remarks.  A  great 
many  such  re-captures  you  run  over  in  your  mind, 
and  think  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  peril  your 
life,  either  by  flood,  or  fire — to  cut  off  your  arm, 
or  your  head,  or  any  such  trifle, — for  your  dear 
Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more  joyous 
in  life,  than  to  live  with  her  in  some  old  castle,  very 
far  away  from  steamboats,  and  post-offices,  and 
pick  wild  geraniums  for  her  hair,  and  read  poetry 
with  her,  under  the  shade  of  very  dark  ivy  vines. 
And  you  would  have  such  a  charming  boudoir  in 
some  corner  of  the  old  ruin,  with  a  harp  in  it,  and 
books  bound  in  gilt,  with  cupids  on  the  cover,  and 
such  a  fairy  couch,  with  the  curtains  hung — as  you 
have  seen  them  hung  in  some  illustrated  Arabian 
stories — upon  a  pair  of  carved  doves  ! 

And  when  they  laugh  at  you  about  it,  you  turn 
it  off  perhaps  with  saying — "it  isn't  so;"  but 
9* 


102  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

afterward,  in  your  chamber,  or  under  the  tree 
where  you  have  cut  her  name,  you  take  Heaven  to 
witness,  that  it  is  so ;  and  think — what  a  cold 
World  it  is,  to  be  so  careless  about  such  holy  emo- 
tions !  You  perfectly  hate  a  certain  stout  boy  in  a 
green  jacket,  who  is  forever  twitting  you,  and  sail- 
ing her  names ;  but  when  some  old  maiden  aunt 
teases  you  in  her  kind,  gentle  way,  you  bear  it  very 
proudly  ;  and  with  a  feeling  as  if  you  could  bear  a 
great  deal  more  for  her  sake.  And  when  the  min- 
ister reads  off  marriage  announcements  in  the 
church,  you  think  how  it  will  sound  one  of  these 
days,  to  have  your  name,  and  hers,  read  from  the 
pulpit ; — and  how  the  people  all  will  look  at  you, 
and  how  prettily  she  will  blush ;  and  how  poor 
little  Dick,  who  you  know  loves  her,  but  is  afraid 
to  say  so,  will  squirm  upon  his  bench. 

— Heigho  ! — mused  I, — as  the  blue  smoke  rolled 
up  around  my  head, — these  first  kindlings  of  the 
love  that  is  in  one,  are  very  pleasant ! — but  will 
they  last  ? 

You  love  to  listen  to  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  as 
she  stirs  about  the  room.  It  is  better  music  than 
grown-up  ladies  will  make  upon  all  their  harpsi- 
chords, in  the  years  that  are  to  come.  But  this, 
thank  Heaven,  you  do  not  know. 

You  think  you  can  trace  her  foot-mark,  on  your 
way  to  the  school ; — and  what  a  dear  little  foot- 
mark it  is  !  And  from  that  single  point,  if  she  be 
out  of  your  sight  for  days,  you  conjure  up  the  whole 
image, — the  elastic,  lithe  little  figure, — the  springy 


LIGHTED  WITH  A   COAL.  103 

step, — the  dotted  muslin  so  light,  and  flowing, — 
the  oLk  kerchief,  with  its  most  tempting  fringe 
playing  upon  the  clear  white  of  her  throat, — 
how  you  «nvy  that  fringe !  And  her  chin  is  as 
round  as  a  peach, — and  the  lips — such  lips  ! — and 
you  sigh,  and  hang  your  head ;  and  wonder  when 
you  shall  see  ner  again  ! 

You  would  dke  to  write  her  a  letter ;  but  then 
people  would  talK  so  coldly  about  it ;  and  beside 
you  are  not  quite  su.e  you  could  write  such  billets 
as  Thaddeus  of  "Warsaw  used  to  write ;  and  any- 
thing less  warm  or  eiogant,  would  not  do  at  all. 
You  talk  about  this  oi.e,  or  that  one,  whom  they 
call  pretty,  in  the  coolesi  way  in  the  world ;  you 
see  very  little  of  their  pi-ettiness ;  they  are  good 
girls  to  be  sure ;  and  you  hope  they  will  get  good 
husbands  some  day  or  other :  bat  it  is  not  a  matter 
that  concerns  you  very  mucii.  They  do  not  live 
in  your  world  of  romance  ;  they  are  not  the  angels 
of  that  sky  which  your  heart  makes  rosy,  and  to 
which  I  have  likened  the  blue  waves  of  this  roll- 
ing smoke. 

You  can  even  joke  as  you  talk  of  others ;  you 
can  smile, — as  you  think — very  graciously ;  you 
can  say  laughingly  that  you  are  deeply  in  love  with 
them,  and  think  it  a  most  capital  joke ;  you  can 
touch  their  hands,  or  steal  a  kiss  from  them  in 
your  games,  most  ioiperturbably ; — they  are  very 
dead  coals. 

But  the  live  one  is  very  lively.  When  you  take 
the  name  on  your  lip,  it  seems  somehow,  to  be 


104  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

made  of  different  materials  from  the  rest ;  you  can1 
not  half  so  easily  separate  it  into  letters  ;— write  it» 
indeed,  you  can  ;  for  you  have  had  practice, — very 
much  private  practice  on  odd  scraps  of  paper,  and 
on  the  fly-leaves  of  geographies,  and  of  your  natural 
philosophy.  You  know  perfectly  well  how  it  looks  ; 
it  seems  to  be  written  indeed  some^  here  behind 
your  eyes ;  and  in  such  happy  position  with  respect  to 
the  optic  nerve,  that  you  see  it  all  the  tune,  though 
you  are  looking  in  an  opposite  direction ;  and  so 
distinctly,  that  you  have  great  fears  lest  people 
looking  into  your  eyes,  should  see  it  too  1 

For  all  this,  it  is  a  far  more  delicate  name  to 
handle  than  most  that  you  know  of.  Though  it  is 
very  cool,  and  pleasant  on  the  brain,  it  is  very  hot, 
and  difficult  to  manage  on  the  lip.  It  is  not,  as 
your  schoolmaster  would  say, — a  name,  so  much  as 
it  is  an  idea  ; — not  a  noun,  but  a  verb, — an  active, 
and  transitive  verb ;  and  yet  a  most  irregular  verb, 
wanting  the  passive  voice. 

It  is  something  against  your  schoolmaster's 
doctrine,  to  find  warmth  in  the  moonlight ;  but 
•with  that  soft  hand — it  is  very  soft — lying  within 
your  arm,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  warmth,  what- 
ever the  philosophers  may  say,  even  in  pale  moon- 
light. The  beams,  too,  breed  sympathies,  very 
close-running  sympathies, — not  talked  about  in  the 
chapters  on  optics,  and  altogether  too  fine  for  lan- 
guage. And  under  their  influence,  you  retain  the 
little  hand,  that  you  had  not  dared  retain  so  long 
before  -,  and  her  struggle  to  recover  it, — if  indeed 


LIGHTED    WITH  A  COAL.  105 

ic  be  a  struggle, — is  infinitely  less  than  it  was  ; — 
nay,  it  is  a  kind  of  struggle,  not  so  much  against 
you,  as  between  gladness  and  modesty.  It  makes 
you  as  bold  as  a  lion  ;  and  .the  feeble  hand,  like  a 
poor  lamb  in  the  lion's  clutch,  is  powerless,  and 
very  meek  ; — and  failing  of  escape,  it  will  sue  for 
gentle  treatment ;  and  will  meet  your  warm  promise, 
with  a  kind  of  grateful  pleasure,  that  is  but  half 
acknowledged  by  the  hand  that  makes  it. 

My  cigar  is  burning  with  wondrous  freeness ; 
and  from  the  smoke  flash  forth  images  bright  and 
quick  as  lightning — with  no  thunder,  but  the  thun- 
der of  the  pulse.  But  will  it  all  last  ?  Damp  will 
deaden  the  fire  of  a  cigar ;  and  there  are  hellish 
damps — alas,  too  many, — that  will  deaden  the 
early  blazing  of  the  heart. 

She  is  pretty, — growing  prettier  to  your  eye, 
the  more  you  look  upon  her,  and  prettier  to  your 
ear,  the  more  you  listen  to  her.  But  you  wonder 
who  the  tall  boy  was,  whom  you  saw  walking  with 
her,  two  days  ago  ?  He  was  not  a  bad-looking 
boy ;  on  the  contrary,  you  think, — (with  a  grit  of 
your  teeth) — that  he  was  infernally  handsome ! 
You  look  at  him  very  shyly,  and  very  closely, 
when  you  pass  him ;  and  turn  to  see  how  he  walks, 
and  to  measure  his  shoulders,  and  are  quite  dis- 
gusted with  the  very  modest,  and  gentlemanly 
v/ay,  with  which  he  carries  himself.  You  think 
you  would  like  to  have  a  fisticuff  with  him,  if  you 
were  only  sure  of  having  the  best  of  it.  You  sound 
tLe  neighborhood  coyly,  to  find  out  who  the 


106  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

strange  boy  is  ;  and  are  half  ashamed  of  yourself 
for  doing  it. 

You  gather  a  magnificent  bouquet  to  send  her, 
and  tie  it  with  a  green  ribbon,  and  love  knot,— 
and  get  a  little  rose-bud  in  acknowledgment. 
That  day,  you  pass  the  tall  boy  with  a  very  pat- 
ronizing look  ;  and  wonder  if  he  would  not  like  to 
have  a  sail  in  your  boat  ? 

But  by  and  by,  you  find  the  tall  boy  walking 
with  her  again ;  and  she  looks  sideways  at  him, 
and  with  a  kind  of  grown  up  air,  that  makes  you 
feel  very  boylike,  and  humble,  and  furious.  And 
you  look  daggers  at  him  when  you  pass ;  and 
touch  your  cap  to  her,  with  quite  uncommon  dig- 
nity ; — and  wonder  if  she  is  not  sorry,  and  docs  not 
feel  very  badly,  to  have  got  such  a  look  from  you  ? 

On  some  other  day,  however,  you  meet  her 
alone  ;  and  the  sight  of  her  makes  your  face  wear 
a  genial,  sunny  air ;  and  you  talk  a  little  sadly 
about  your  fears  and  your  jealousies  ;  she  seems  a 
little  sad,  and  a  little  glad,  together ; — and  is  sorry 
she  has  made  you  feel  badly, — and  you  are  sorry 
too.  And  with  this  pleasant  twin  sorrow,  you  are 
knit  together  again — closer  than  ever.  That  one 
little  tear  of  hers  has  been  worth  more  to  you  than 
a  thousand  smiles.  Now  you  love  her  madly  ;  you 
could  swear  it — swear  it  to  her,  or  swear  it  to  the 
universe.  You  even  say  as  much  to  some  kind  old 
friend  at  night-fall ;  but  your  mention  of  her,  is 
tremulous  and  joyful, — with  a  kind  of  bound  in 
your  speech,  as  if  the  heart  worked  too  quick  for 


LIGHTED    WITH  A   COAL.  107 

the  tongue,  and  as  if  the  lips  were  ashamed  to  be 
passing  over  such  secrets  of  the  soul,  to  the  mere 
sense  of  hearing.  At  this  stage,  you  cannot  trust 
yourself  to  speak  her  praises ;  or  if  you  venture, 
the  expletives  fly  away  with  your  thought,  before 
you  can  chain  it  into  language ;  and  your  speech, 
at  your  best  endeavor,  is  but  a  succession  of  broken 
superlatives,  that  you  are  ashamed  of.  You  strain 
for  language  that  will  scald  the  thought  of  her ; 
but  hot  as  you  can  make  it,  it  falls  back  upon  your 
heated  fancy,  like  a  cold  shower. 

Heat  so  intense  as  this  consumes  very  fast ;  and 
the  matter  it  feeds  fastest  on,  is — judgment ;  and 
with  judgment  gone,  there  is  room  for  jealousy  to 
creep  in.  You  grow  petulant  at  another  sight  of 
that  tall  boy ;  and  the  one  tear,  which  cured  your 
first  petulance,  will  not  cure  it  now.  You  let  a 
little  of  your  fever  break  out  in  speech — a  speech 
which  you  go  home  to  mourn  over.  But  she 
knows  nothing  of  the  mourning,  while  she  knows 
very  much  of  the  anger.  Vain  tears  are  very  apt 
to  breed  pride ;  and  when  you  go  again  with  your 
petulance,  you  will  find  your  rosy-lipped  girl  tak- 
ing her  first  studies  in  dignity. 

You  will  stay  away,  you  say ; — poor  fool,  you 
are  feeding  on  what  your  disease  loves  best !  You 
wonder  if  she  is  not  sighing  for  your  return, — and 
if  your  name  is  not  running  in  her  thought — and 
if  tears  of  regret  are  not  moistening  those  sweet  j 
eyes. 

And  wondering  thus,  you  stroll  moodily, 


108  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

and  hopefully  toward  her  father's  home ;  you  pass 
the  door  once — twice  ;  you  loiter  under  the  shade 
of  an  old  tree,  where  you  have  sometimes  bid  her 
adieu ;  your  old  fondness  is  struggling  with  your 
pride,  and  has  almost  made  the  mastery ;  but  in 
the  very  moment  of  victory,  you  see  yonder  your 
hated  rival,  and  beside  him,  looking  very  gleeful, 
and  happy — your  perfidious  Louise. 

How  quick  you  throw  off  the  marks  of  your 
struggle  and  put  on  the  boldest  air  of  boyhood ; 
and  what  a  dexterous  handling  to  your  knife,  and 
a  wonderful  keenness  to  the  edge,  as  you  cut  away 
from  the  bark  of  the  beech  tree,  all  trace  of  her 
name !  Still  there  is  a  little  silent  relenting,  and  a 
few  tears  at  night,  and  a  little  tremor  of  the  hand, 
as  you  tear  out — the  next  day, — every  fly-leaf  that 
bears  her  name.  But  at  sight  of  your  rival, — look- 
ing so  jaunty,  and  in  such  capital  spirits,  you  put 
on  the  proud  man  again.  You  may  meet  her,  but 
you  say  nothing  of  your  struggles ; — oh  no,  not  one 
word  of  that ! — but  you  talk  Avith  amazing  rapidity 
about  your  games,  or  what  not ;  'and  you  never — 
never  give  her  another  peep  into  your  boyish 
heart! 

For  a  week,  you  do  not  see  her, — nor  for  a 
month, — nor  two  months — nor  three. 

— Puff — puff  once  more ;  there  is  only  a  little 
nauseous  smoke ;  and  now — my  cigar  is  gone  out 
altogether.  I  must  light  again. 


n. 

With  a  Wisp  of  Paper. 

fT^HERE  are  those  who  throw  away  a  cigar, 
_1_  when  once  gone  out ;  they  must  needs  have 
plenty  more.  But  nobody  that  I  ever  heard  of, 
keeps  a  cedar  box  of  hearts,  labelled  at  Havana. 
Alas,  there  is  but  one  to  light ! 

But  can  a  heart  once  lit,  be  lighted  again? 
Authority  on  this  point  is  worth  something ;  yet  it 
should  be  impartial  authority.  I  should  be  loth 
to  take  in  evidence,  for  the  fact, — however  it  might 
tally  with  my  hope,  the  affidavit  of  some  rakish 
old  widower,  who  had  cast  his  weeds,  before  the 
grass  had  started  on  the  mound  of  his  affliction ; 
and  I  should  be  as  slow  to  take,  in  way  of  rebut- 
ting testimony,  the  oath  of  any  sweet  young  girl, 
just  becoming  conscious  of  her  heart's  existence — 
by  its  loss. 

Very  much,  it  seems  to  me,  depends  upon  the 
quality  of  the  fire :   and  I  can  easily  conceive  of 
10 


110  BE  VERIES  OF  A  BA  CHEL  OR. 

one  so  pure,  so  constant,  so  exhausting,  that  if  it 
were  once  gone  out,  whether  in  the  chills  of  death, 
or  under  the  blasts  of  pitiless  fortune,  there  would 
be  no  rekindling ; — simply  because  there  would  be 
nothing  left  to  kindle.  And  I  can  imagine  too  a 
fire  so  earnest,  and  so  true,  that  whatever  malice 
might  urge,  or  a  devilish  ingenuity  devise,  there 
could  no  other  be  found,  high  or  low,  far  or  near, 
which  should  not  so  contrast  with  the  first  as  to 
make  it  seem  cold  as  ice. 

I  remember  in  an  old  play  of  Davenport's,  the 
hero  is  led  to  doubt  his  mistress;  he  is  worked 
upon  by  slanders,  to  quit  her  altogether, — though 
he  has  loved,  and  does  still  love  passionately.  She 
bids  him  adieu,  with  large  tears  dropping  from  her 
eyes,  (and  I  lay  down  my  cigar,  to  recite  it  aloud, 
fancying  all  the  while,  with  a  varlet  impudence 
that  some  Abstemia  is  repeating  it  to  me) — 


•  Farewell,  Lorenzo, 


"Whom  my  soul  doth  love  ;  if  you  ever  marry, 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife  ,  BO  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  Bhe  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion  :  and  if  you  hear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  loved  you. 
And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice, 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me, 
Imagine  that  you  see  me  thin,  and  pale, 
Strewing  your  path  with  flowers  1 

Poor  Abstemia  !     Lorenzo  never  could  find 

such  another, — there  never  could  be  such  another, 
for  such  Lorenzo. 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  \\\ 

To  blaze  anew,  it  is  essential  that  the  old  fire  be 
utterly  gone ;  and  can  any  truly-lighted  soul  ever 
grow  cold,  except  the  grave  cover  it  ?  The  poets 
all  say  no  :  Othello,  had  he  lived  a  thousand  years, 
would  not  have  loved  again ; — nor  Desdemona, — 
nor  Andromache, — nor  Medea, — nor  Ulysses, — nor 
Hamlet.  But  in  the  cool  wreaths  of  the  pleasant 
smoke,  let  us  see  what  truth  is  in  the  poets. 

— What  is  love, — mused  I, — at  the  first,  but  a 
mere  fancy  ?  There  is  a  prettiness,  that  your  soul 
cleaves  to,  as  your  eye  to  a  pleasant  flower,  or  your 
ear  to  a  soft  melody.  Presently,  admiration  comes 
in,  as  a  sort  of  balance-wheel  for  the  eccentric  revo- 
lutions of  your  fancy ;  and  your  admiration  is 
touched  off  with  such  neat  quality  as  respect.  Too 
much  of  this  indeed,  they  say,  deadens  the  fancy  ; 
and  so  retards  the  action  of  the  heart  machinery. 
But  with  a  proper  modicum  to  serve  as  a  stock, 
devotion  is  grafted  in ;  and  then,  by  an  agree- 
able and  confused  mingling,  all  these  qualities,  and 
affections  of  the  soul,  become  transfused  into  that 
vital  feeling,  called  Love. 

Your  heart  seems  to  have  gone  over  to  another 
and  better  counterpart  of  your  humanity  ;  what  is 
left  of  you,  seems  the  mere  husk  of  some  kernel 
that  has  been  stolen.  It  is  not  an  emotion  of 
yours,  which  is  making  very  easy  voyages  towards 
another  soul, — that  may  be  shortened,  or  length- 
ened at  will ;  but  it  is  a  passion,  that  is  only  yours, 
because  it  is  there ;  the  more  it  lodges  there,  the 
mors  keenly  you  feel  it  to  be  yours. 


112  RE  VERIES  OF  A  BA  CHEL  OR. 

The  qualities  that  feed  this  passion,  may  indeed 
belong  to  you ;  but  they  never  gave  birth  to  such 
an  one  before,  simply  because  there  was  no  place 
in  which  it  could  grow.  Nature  is  very  provident 
in  these  matters.  The  chrysalis  does  not  burst, 
until  there  is  a  wing  to  help  the  gauze-fly  upward. 
The  shell  does  not  break,  until  the  b5rd  can 
breathe ;  nor  does  the  swallow  quit  its  riest,  until 
its  wings  are  tipped  with  the  airy  oars. 

This  passion  of  love  is  strong,  just  in  propor- 
tion as  the  atmosphere  it  finds,  is  tender  of  its  life. 
Let  the  atmosphere  change  into  too  great  coldness, 
and  the  passion  becomes  a  wreck, — not  yours, 
because  it  is  not  worth  your  having; — nor  vital, 
because  it  has  lost  the  soil  where  it  grew.  But  is 
it  not  laying  the  reproach  in  a  high  quarter,  to  say 
that  those  qualities  of  the  heart  which  begot  this 
passion,  are  exhausted,  and  will  not  thenceforth 
germinate  through  all  of  your  life  time  ? 

Take  away  the  worm-eaten  frame  from 

your  arbor  plant,  and  the  wrenched  arms  of  the 
despoiled  climber  will  not  at  the  first,  touch  any 
new  trellis ;  they  cannot  in  a  day,  change  the  habit 
of  a  year.  But  let  the  new  support  stand  firmly, 
and  the  needy  tendrils  will  presently  lay  hold  upon 
the  stranger  !  and  your  plant  will  regain  its  pride 
and  pomp ; — cherishing  perhaps  in  its  bent  figure, 
a  memento  of  the  Old ;  but  in  its  more  earnest,  ar.cl 
abounding  life,  mindful  only  of  its  sweet  dcpend- 
ance  upon  the  New. 

Let  the  Poets  say  what  they  will,  these  afiec- 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  .13 

tions  of  ours  are  not  blind,  stupid  creature-..,  to 
starve  under  polar  snows,  when  the  very  breezes  of 
Heaven  are  the  appointed,  messengers  to  guide 
them  toward  warmth  and  sunshine  ! 

And  with  a  little  suddenness  of  manner,  I 

tear  off  a  wisp  of  paper,  and.  holding  it  in  the 
blaze  of  my  lamp,  re-light  my  cigar.  It  does  not 
burn  so  easily  perhaps  as  at  first : — it  wants  warm- 
ing, before  it  will  catch ;  but  presently,  it  is  in  a 
broad,  full  glow,  that  throws  light  into  the  corners 
of  my  room. 

Just  so, — thought  I, — the  love  of  youth, 

which  succeeds  the  crackling  blaze  of  boyhood, 
makes  a  broader  flame,  though  it  may  not  be  so 
easily  kindled.  A  mere  dainty  step,  or  a  curling 
lock,  or  a  soft  blue  eye  are  not  enough ;  but  in  her, 
who  has  quickened  the  new  blaze,  there  is  a  blend- 
ing of  all  these,  with  a  certain  sweetness  of  soul, 
that  finds  expression  in  whatever  feature  or  motion 
you  look  upon.  Her  charms  steal  over  you  gently, 
and  almost  imperceptibly.  You  think  that  she  ia 
a  pleasant  companion — nothing  more :  and  you 
find  the  opinion  strongly  confirmed  day  by  day ; — 
so  well  confirmed,  indeed,  that  you  begin  to  won- 
der— why  it  is,  that  she  is  such  a  delightful  com- 
panion ?  It  cannot  be  her  eye,  for  you  have  seen 
eyes  almost  as  pretty  as  Nelly's  ;  nor  can  it  be  her, 
mouth,  though  Nelly's  mouth  is  certainly  very 
sweet.  And  you  keep  studying  what  on  earth  it 
can  be  that  makes  you  so  earnest  to  be  near  her,  or 
to  listen  to  her  voice.  The  study  is  pleasant.  You 
10* 


114  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

do  not  know  any  study  that  is  more  so  ;  or  which 
you  accomplish  with  less  mental  fatigue. 

Upon  a  sudden,  some  fine  day,  when  the  air  is 
balmy,  ^and  the  recollection  of  Nelly's  voice  and 
manner,  more  balmy  still,  you  wonder — if  you  are 
in  love  ?  When  a  man  has  such  a  wonder,  he  is 
either  very  near  love,  or  he  is  very  far  away  from 
it ;  it  is  a  wonder,  that  is  either  suggested  by  his 
hope,  or  by  that  entanglement  of  feeling  which 
blunts  all  his  perceptions. 

But  if  not  in  love,  you  have  at  least  a  strong 
fancy, — so  strong,  that  you  tell  your  friends  care- 
lessly, that  she  is  a  nice  girl, — nay,  a  beautiful  girl ; 
and  if  your  education  has  been  bad,  you  strengthen 
the  epithet  on  your  own  tongue,  with  a  very  wicked 
expletive  : — of  which  the  mildest  form  would  be — 
"  deuced  fine  girl !  "  Presently,  however,  you  get 
beyond  this ;  and  your  companionship,  and  your 
wonder,  relapse  into  a  constant,  quiet  habit  of  un- 
mistakeable  love  : — not  impulsive,  quick,  and  fiery, 
like  the  first ;  but  mature  and  calm.  It  is  as  if  it 
Were  born  with  your  soul,  and  the  recognition  of  it 
was  rather  an  old  remembrance,  than  a  fresh  pas- 
sion. It  does  not  seek  to  gratify  its  exuberance, 
and  force,  with  such  relief  as  night-serenades,  or 
any  Jacques-like  meditations  in  the  forest ;  but  it 
is  a  quiet,  still  joy,  that  floats  on  your  hope,  into 
the  years  to  come, — making  the  prospect  all  sunny 
and  joyful. 

It  is  a  kind  of  oil  and  balm  for  whatever  was 
fe'-^rmy,  or  harmful :  it  gives  a  permanence  to  the 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  115 

Bmile  of  existence.  It  does  not  make  the  sea  of 
your  life  turbulent  with  high  emotions,  as  if  a 
strong  wind  were  blowing ; — but  it  is  as  if  an 
Aphrodite  had  broken  on  the  surface,  an/i  the 
ripples  were  spreading  with  a  sweet,  low  sound, 
and  widening  far  out  to  the  very  shores  of  time. 

There  is  no  need  now,  as  with  the  boy,  to  bol- 
ster up  your  feelings  with  extravagant  vows  :  even 
should  you  try  this  in  her  presence,  the  words  are 
lacking  to  put  such  vows  in.  So  soon  as  you  reach 
them,  they  fail  you :  and  the  oath  only  quivers  on 
the  lip,  or  tells  its  story  by  a  pressure  of  the  fingers. 
You  wear  a  brusque,  pleasant  air  with  your  ac- 
quaintances, and  hint — with  a  sly  look — at  pos- 
sible changes  in  your  circumstances.  Of  an  even- 
ing, you  are  kind  to  the  most  unattractive  of  the 
wall-flowers, — if  only  your  Nelly  is  away  ;  and  you 
have  a  sudden  charity  for  street  beggars,  with  pale 
children.  You  catch  yourself  taking  a  step  in  one 
of  the  new  Polkas,  upon  a  country  walk :  and  won- 
der immensely  at  the  number  of  bright  days  which 
succeed  each  other,  without  leaving  a  single 
stormy  gap  for  your  old  melancholy  moods.  Even 
the  chambermaids  at  your  hotel,  never  did  their 
duty  one  half  so  well ;  and  as  for  your  man  Tom, 
he  is  become  a  perfect  pattern  of  a  fellow. 

My  cigar  is  in  a  fine  glow  ;  but  it  has  gone  out 
once,  and  it  may  go  out  again. 

You  begin  to  talk  of  marriage  ;  but  some 

obstinate  Papa,  or  guardian  uncle  thinks  that  it 
will  never  do ; — that  it  is  quite  too  soon,  or  that 


116  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Nelly  is  a  mere  girl.  Or  some  of  your  wild  oats, — 
quite  forgotten  by  yourself, — shoot  up  on  the 
vision  of  a  staid  Mamma,  and  throw  a  very  damp 
shadow  on  your  character.  Or  tae  old  lady  has  an, 
ambition  of  another  sort,  which  you,  a  simple, 
earnest,  plodding,  bachelor,  can  never  gratify ;— . 
being  of  only  passable  appearance,  and  unschooled 
iii  the  fashions  of  the  world,  you  will  be  eternally 
rubbing  the  elbows  of  the  old  lady's  pride. 

All  this  will  be  strangely  afflictive  to  one  who 
has  been  living  for  quite  a  number  of  weeks,  or 
months,  in  a  pleasant  dream-land,  where  there 
were  no  five  per  cents,  or  reputations,  but  only  a 
very  full,  and  delirious  flow  of  feeling.  What  care 
you  for  any  position,  except  a  position  near  the 
being  that  you  love  ?  What  wealth  do  you  prize, 
except  a  wealth  of  heart,  that  shall  never  know 
diminution ; — or  for  reputation,  except,  that  of 
truth,  and  of  honor  ?  How  hard  it  would  break 
upon  these  pleasant  idealities,  to  have  a  weazen-faced 
old  guardian,  set  his  arm  in  yours,  and  tell  you  how 
tenderly  he  has  at  heart  the  happiness  of  his  niece . 
— and  reason  with  you  about  your  very  small,  and 
sparse  dividends,  and  your  limited  business ; — and 
caution  you, — for  he  has  a  lively  regard  for  your 
interests, — about  continuing  your  addresses  ? 

The  kind  old  curmudgeon  ! 

Your  man  Tom  has  grown  suddenly  a  very  stu- 
pid fellow ;  and  all  your  charity  for  withered  wall- 
flowers, is  gone.  Perhaps  in  your  wrath  the  sus- 
picion comes  over  you,  that  she  too  vvi.sliej  you 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  \\l 

were  something  higher,  or  more  famous,  or  richer, 
or  anything  but  what  you  are  ! — a  very  dangerous 
suspicion :  for  no  man  with  any  true  nobility  of 
soul,  can  ever  make  his  heart  the  slave  of  another's 
condescension. 

But  no, — you  will  not,  you  cannot  believe  this 
of  Nelly ; — that  face  of  hers  is  too  mild  and  gra- 
cious ;  and  her  manner,  as  she  takes  your  hand, 
after  your  heart  is  made  sad,  and  turns  away  those 
rich  blue  eyes, — shadowed  more  deeply  than  ever 
by  the  long  and  moistened  fringe ; — and  the  ex- 
quisite softness,  and  meaning  of  the  pressure  of 
those  little  fingers ; — and  the  low,  half  sob ;  and 
the  heaving  of  that  bosom,  in  its  struggles  between 
love  and  duty, — all  forbid.  Nelly,  you  could 
swear  is  tenderly  indulgent  like  the  fond  creature 
that  she  is,  toward  all  your  short-comings ;  and 
would  not  barter  your  strong  love,  and  your  honest 
heart,  for  the  greatest  magnate  in  the  land. 

What  a  spur  to  effort  is  the  confiding  love  of 
a  true-hearted  woman !  That  last  fond  look  of 
hers,  hopeful,  and  encouraging,  has  more  power 
within  it  to  nerve  your  soul  to  high  deeds,  than  all 
the  admonitions  of  all  your  tutors.  Your  heart, 
beating  large  with  hope,  quickens  the  flow  upon 
the  bruin ;  and  you  make  wild  vows  to  win  great- 
ness. But  alas,  this  is  a  great  world — very  full, 
and  very  rough ; 

all  up-hill  work  when  we  would  do  ; 

All  down-hill,  when  we  suffer.* 

*  Festua. 


118  JREVEE2ES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Hard,  withering  toil  only,  can  achieve  a  name  •, 
and  long  days,  and  months,  and  years,  must  be 
passed  in  the  chase  of  that  bubble — reputation ; 
which  when  once  grasped,  breaks  in  your  eager 
clutch,  into  a  hundred  lesser  bubbles,  that  soar 
above  you  still ! 

A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to  time,  and  a 
note  or  two  tenderly  written,  keep  up  the  blaze  in 
your  heart.  But  presently,  the  lynx-eyed  old  guar- 
dian— so  tender  of  your  interests,  and  hers, — for- 
bids even  this  irregular  and  unsatisfying  corre- 
spondence. Now  you  can  feed  yourself  only  on 
stray  glimpses  of  her  figure — as  full  of  sprightli- 
ness  and  grace,  as  ever ;  and  that  beaming  face, 
you  are  half  sorry  to  see  from  time  to  time, — still 
beautiful.  You  struggle  with  your  moods  of 
melancholy,  and  wear  bright  looks  yourself — 
bright  to  her,  and  very  bright  to  the  eye  of  the  old 
curmudgeon,  who  has  snatched  your  heart  away. 
It  will  never  do  to  show  your  weakness  to  a  man. 

At  length,  on  some  pleasant  morning,  you  learn 
that  she  is  gone, — too  far  away  to  be  seen,  too 
closely  guarded  to  be  reached.  For  a  while  you 
throw  down  your  books,  and  abandon  your  toil  in 
despair, — thinking  very  bitter  thoughts,  and  mak- 
ing very  helpless  resolves. 

My  cigar  is  still  burning ;  but  it  will  require 
constant  and  strong  respiration,  to  keep  it  in  a 
glow. 

A  letter  or  two  dispatched  at  random,  relieve 
the  excess  of  your  fever ;  until  with  practice,  these 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  ng 

random  letters  have  even  less  heat  in  them,  Jhan 
the  heat  of  your  study,  or  of  your  business.  Grief 
— thank  God  ! — is  not  so  progressive,  or  so  cumu- 
lative as  joy.  For  a  time,  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the 
mood,  with  which  you  recal  your  broken  hopes; 
and  with  which  you  selfishly  link  hers  to  the  shat- 
tered wreck  ;  but  absence,  and  ignorance  tame  the 
point  of  your  woe.  You  call  up  the  image  of 
Nelly,  adorning  other  and  distant  scenes.  You  see 
the  tearful  smile  give  place  to  a  blithesome  cheer ; 
and  the  thought  of  you  that  shaded  her  fair  face  so 
long,  fades  under  the  sunshine  of  gaiety ;  or  at 
best,  it  only  seeins  to  cross  that  white  forehead, 
like  a  playful  shadow,  that  a  fleecy  cloud-remnant 
will  fling  upon  a  sunny  lawn. 

As  for  you,  the  world  with  its  whirl  and  roar, 
is  deafening  the  sweet,  distant  notes,  that  come  up 
through  old,  choked  channels  of  the  affections. 
Life  is  calling  for  earnestness  and  not  for  regrets. 
So  the  months,  and  the  years  slip  by  ;  your  bache- 
lor habit  grows  easy  and  light  with  wearing ;  you 
have  mourned  enough,  to  smile  at  the  violent 
mourning  of  others ;  and  you  have  enjoyed  enough, 
to  sigh  over  their  little  eddies  of  delight.  Dark 
shades,  and  delicious  streaks  of  crimson  and  gold 
color  lie  upon  your  life.  Your  heart  with  all  its 
weight  of  ashes,  can  yet  sparkle  at  the  sound  of  a 
fairy  step ;  and  your  face  can  yet  open  into  a  round 
of  joyous  smiles, — that  are  almost  hopes, — ia  the 
presence  of  some  bright-eyed  girl. 

But  amid  this,  there  will  float  over  you  from 


120  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

time  to  time,  a  midnight  trance,  in  which  you  will 
hear  again  with  a  thirsty  ear,  the  witching  melody 
of  the  days  that  are  gone ;  and  you  will  wake  from 
it  with  a  shudder  into  the  cold  resolves  of  your 
lonely,  and  manly  life.  But  the  shudder  passes  as 
easy  as  night  from  morning.  Tearful  regrets,  and 
memories  that  touch  to  the  quick,  are  dull  weapons 
to  break  through  the  panoply  of  your  scared, 
eager,  and  ambitious  manhood.  They  only  ven- 
ture out  like  timid,  white-winged  flies,  when  night 
is  come ;  and  at  the  first  glimpse  of  the  dawn,  they 
shrivel  up,  and  lie  without  a  flutter,  in  some  cor- 
ner of  your  soul. 

And  when,  years  after,  you  learn  that  she  has 
returned — a  woman,  there  is  a  slight  glow,  but  no 
tumultuous  bound  of  the  heart.  Life,  and  time 
have  worried  you- down  like  a  spent  hound.  The 
world  has  given  you  a  habit  of  easy  and  unmean- 
ing smiles.  You  half  accuse  yourself  of  ingrati- 
tude and  forgetfulness ;  but  the  accusation  does 
not  oppress  you.  It  does  not  even  distract  your 
attention  from  the  morning  journal.  You  cannot 
work  yourself  into  a  respectable  degree  of  indigna- 
tion against  the  old  gentleman — her  guardian. 

You  sigh — poor  thing  ! — and  in  a  very  flashy 
waistcoat,  you  venture  a  morning  call. 

She  meets  you  kindly, — a  comely,  matronly 
dame  in  gingham,  with  her  curls  all  gathered 
under  a  high-topped  comb ;  and  she  presents  to 
you  two  little  boys  in  smart  crimson  jackets, 
drt^a  up  v.ilii  braid.  And  you  dine  with 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  121 

Madame — a  family  party ;  and  the  weazen-faced 
old  gentleman  meets  you  with  a  most  pleasant 
shake  of  the  hand, — hints  that  you  were  among  his 
niece's  earliest  friends,  and  hopes  that  you  are 
getting  on  well  ? 

Capitally  well ! 

And  the  boys  toddle  in  at  dessert — Dick  to  get 
a  plum  from  your  own  dish  ;  Tom  to  be  kissed  by 
his  rosy-faced  papa.  In  short,  you  are  made  per- 
fectly at  home  ;  and  you  sit  over  your  wine  for  an 
hour,  in  a  cozy  smoke  with  the  gentlemanly  uncle, 
and  with  the  very  courteous  husband  of  your 
second  flame. 

It  is  all  very  jovial  at  the  table ;  for  good  wine 
is,  I  mid,  a  great  strengthener  of  the  bachelor 
heart.  But  afterwards,  when  night  has  fairly  set 
in,  and  the  blaze  of  your  fire  goes  flickering  over 
your  lonely  quarters,  you  heave  a  deep  sigh.  And 
as  your  thought  runs  back  to  the  perfidious  Louise, 
and  calls  up  the  married  and  matronly  Nelly,  you 
sob  over  that  poor  dumb  heart  within  you,  which 
craves  so  madly  a  free  and  joyous  utterance  !  And 
as  you  lean  over  with  your  forehead  in  your  hands, 
and  your  eyes  fall  upon  the  old  hound  slumbering 
on  the  rug, — the  tears  start,  and  you  wish, — that 
you  had  married  years  ago ; — and  that  you  too 
had  your  pair  of  prattling  boys,  to  drive  away  the 
loneliness  of  your  solitary  hearth  stone. 

My  cigar  would  not  go  ;  it  was  fairly  out, 

But  with  true  bachelor  obstinacy,  I  vowed  that  I 
urould  light  again. 
11 


m. 

Lighted  with  a  Match. 

I  HATE  a  match.  I  feel  sure  that  brimstone 
matches  were  never  made  in  heaven  ;  and  it  is 
sad  to  tliink,  that  with  few  exceptions,  matches  are 
all  of  them  tipped  with  brimstone. 

But  my  taper  having  burned  out,  and  the  coals 
being  all  dead  upon  the  hearth,  a  match  is  all  that 
is  left  to  me. 

All  matches  will  not  blaze  on  the  first  trial ; 
and  there  are  those,  that  with  the  most  indefati- 
gable coaxings,  never  show  a  spark.  They  may 
indeed  leave  in  their  trail  phosphorescent  streaks  ; 
but  you  can  no  more  light  your  cigar  at  them,  than 
you  can  kindle  your  heart,  at  the  covered  wife- 
trails,  which  the  infernal,  gossipping,  old  match- 
makers will  lay  in  your  path. 

Was  there  ever  a  bachelor  of  seven  and  twenty, 
I  wonder,  who  has  not  1  een  haunted  by  pleasant 
old  ladies,  and  trim,  excellent,  good-natured,  mar- 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH.  123 

tied  Mends,  who  talk  to  him  about  nice  matches — 
"  very  nice  matches," — matches  which  never  go 
off?  And  who,  pray,  has  not  had  some  kind  old 
uncle,  to  fill  two  sheets  for  him,  (perhaps  in  the 
time  of  heavy  postages)  about  some  most  eligible 
connection, — "  of  highly  respectable  parentage  ! " 

What  a  delightful  thing,  surely,  for  a  withered 
bachelor,  to  bloom  forth  in  the  dignity  of  an  ances- 
tral tree  !  What  a  precious  surprise  for  him,  who 
has  all  his  life  worshipped  the  wing-heeled  Mer- 
cury, to  find  on  a  sudden,  a  great  stock  of  pre- 
served, and  most  respectable  Penates  ! 

In  God's  name, — thought  I,  puffing  vehe- 
mently,— what  is  a  man's  heart  given  him  for,  if 
not  to  choose,  where  his  heart's  blood,  every  drop 
of  it  is  flowing  ?  Who  is  going  to  dam  these  bil- 
lowy tides  of  the  soul,  whose  roll  is  ordered  by  a 
planet  greater  than  the  moon ; — and  that  planet 
— Venus  ?  Who  is  going  to  shift  this  vane  of  my 
desires,  when  every  breeze  that  passes  in  my  heaven 
is  keeping  it  all  the  more  strongly,  to  its  fixed 
bearings  ? 

Besides  this,  there  are  the  money  matches,  urged 
upon  you  by  disinterested  bachelor  friends,  who 
would  be  very  proud  to  see  you  at  the  head  of  an 
establishment.  And  I  must  confess  that  this  kind 
of  talk  has  a  pleasant  jingle  about  it ;  and  is  one 
of  the  cleverest  aids  to  a  bachelors  day-dreams, 
that  can  well  be  imagined.  And  let  not  the  pout- 
ing lady  condemn  me,  without  a  hearing. 

It  is  certainly  cheerful  to  think, — for  a  contem- 


124  SE7ERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

plative  bachelor, — that  the  pretty  ermine  which  so 
sets  off  the  transparent  hue  of  your  imaginary  wife, 
or  the  lace  which  lies  so  bewitchingly  upon  the 
superb  roundness  of  her  form, — or  the  graceful 
bodice,  trimmed  to  a  line,  which  is  of  such 
exquisite  adaptation  to  her  lithe  figure,  will  be 
always  at  her  command  ; — nay,  that  these  are  only 
units  among  the  chameleon  hues,  under  which  you 
shall  feed  upon  her  beauty !  I  want  to  know  if  it 
is  not  a  pretty  cabinet  picture,  for  fancy  to  luxuri- 
ate upon — that  of  a  sweet  wife,  who  is  cheating 
hosts  of  friends  into  love,  sympathy  and  admira- 
tion, by  the  modest  munificence  of  her  wealth  ?  Is 
it  not  rather  agreeable,  to  feed  your  hopeful  soul 
upon  that  abundance,  which,  while  it  supplies  her 
need,  will  give  a  range  to  her  loving  charities ; — 
which  will  keep  from  her  brow  the  shadows  of 
anxiety,  and  will  sublime  her  gentle  nature,  by 
adding  to  it  the  grace  of  an  angel  of  mercy  ? 

Is  it  not  rich,  in  those  days  when  the  pestilent 
humors  of  bachelorhood  hang  heavy  on  you,  to 
foresee  in  that  shadowy  realm,  where  hope  is  a 
native,  the  quiet  of  a  home,  made  splendid  with 
attractions  ;  and  made  real,  by  the  presence  of  her, 
who  bestows  them  ? — Upon  my  word — thought  I, 
as  I  continued  puffing, — such  a  match  must  make  a 
very  grateful  lighting  of  one's  inner  sympathies ; 
nor  am  I  prepared  to  say,  that  such  associations 
would  not  add  force  to  the  most  abstract  love' 
imaginable. 

Think  of  it  for  a  moment ; — what  is  it,  that  we 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH.  125 

poor  fellows  love  ?  We  love,  if  one  may  judge  for 
himself,  over  his  cigar, — gentleness,  beauty,  refine- 
ment, generosity,  and  intelligence, — and  far  above 
these,  a  returning  love,  made  up  of  all  these  quali- 
ties, and  gaining  upon  your  love,  day  by  day,  and 
month  by  month,  like  a  sunny  morning,  gaining 
upon  the  frosts  of  night. 

But  wealth  is  a  great  means  of  refinement ;  and 
it  is  a  security  for  gentleness,  since  it  removes  dis- 
turbing anxieties  ;  and  it  is  a  pretty  promoter  of 
intelligence,  since  it  multiplies  the  avenues  for  its 
reception ;  and  it  is  a  good  basis  for  a  generous 
habit  of  life  ;  it  even  equips  beauty,  neither  hard- 
ening its  hand  with  toil,  nor  tempting  the  wrinkles 
to  come  early.  But  whether  it  provokes  greatly 
that  returning  passion, — that  abnegation  of  soul, 
— that  sweet  trustfulness,  and  abiding  affection, 
which  are  to  clothe  your  heart  with  joy,  is  far 
more  doubtful.  Wealth  while  it  gives  so  much, 
asks  much  in  return  ;  and  the  soul  that  is  grateful 
to  mammon,  is  not  over  ready  to  be  grateful  for 
intensity  of  love.  It  is  hard  to  gratify  those,  who 
have  nothing  left  to  gratify. 

Heaven  help  the  man  who  having  wearied  his 
soul  with  delays  and  doubts,  or  exhausted  the 
freshness,  and  exuberance  of  his  youth, — by  a  hun- 
dred little  dallyings  of  love, — consigns  himself  at 
length  to  the  issues  of  what  people  call  a  nice 
match — whether  of  money,  or  of  a  family  ! 

Heaven  help  you — (I  brushed  the  ashes  from 
my  cigar)  when  yo«  cegin  to  regard  marriage  as 
11* 


126  RE  VERIES  OF  A  BA  CHE  I,  OK. 

only  a  respectable  institution,  and  under  the  advices 
of  staid  old  friends,  begin  to  look  about  you  for 
some  very  respectable  wife.  You  may  admire  her 
figure,  and  her  family ;  and  bear  pleasantly  in  mind 
the  very  casual  mention  which  has  been  made  by 
some  of  your  penetrating  friends, — that  she  has 
large  expectations.  You  think  that  she  would 
make  a  very  capital  appearance  at  the  head  of 
your  table ;  nor  in  the  event  of  your  coming  to  any 
public  honor,  would  she  make  you  blush  for  her 
breeding.  She  talks  well,  exceedingly  well ;  and 
her  face  has  its  charms ;  especially  under  a  little 
excitement.  Her  dress  is  elegant  and  tasteful,  and 
she  is  constantly  remarked  upon  by  all  your  friends, 
as  a  "  nice  person."  Some  good  old  lady,  in  whose 
pew  she  occasionally  sits  on  a  Sunday,  or  to  whom 
she  has  sometime  sent  a  papier  mache  card-case, 
for  the  show-box  of  some  Dorcas  benevolent  so- 
ciety, thinks, — with  a  sly  wink, — that  she  would 
make  a  fine  wife  for — somebody. 

She  certainly  ha»  an  elegant  figure ;  and  the 
marriage  of  some  half  dozen  of  your  old  flames, 
warn  you  that  time  is  slipping  and  your  chances 
failing.  And  in  the  pleasant  warmth  of  some  after- 
dinner  mood,  you  resolve — with  her  image  in  her 
prettiest  pelisse  drifting  across  your  brain — that 
you  will  marry.  Now  comes  the  pleasant  excite- 
ment of  the  chase ;  and  whatever  family  dignity 
may  surround  her,  only  adds  to  the  pleasurable 
glow  of  the  pursuit.  You  give  an  hour  more  to 
your  toilette,  and  a  hundred  or  two  more,  a  year. 


LIGHTED    WITH  A  MATCH.  127 

to  your  tailor.  All  is  orderly,  dignified,  and  gra- 
cious. Charlotte  is  a  sensible  woman,  everybody 
says;  and  you  believe  it  yourself.  You  agree  in 
your  talk  about  books,  and  churches,  and  flowers. 
Of  course  she  has  good  taste — for  she  accepts  you. 
The  acceptance  is  dignified,  elegant,  and  even  cour- 
teous. 

You  receive  numerous  congratulations ;  and 
your  old  friend  Tom  writes  you — that  he  hears  you 
are  going  to  marry  a  splendid  woman ;  and  all  the 
old  ladies  say — what  a  capital  match  !  And  your 
business  partner,  who  is  a  married  man,  and  some- 
thing of  a  wag — "  sympathizes  sincerely."  Upon 
the  whole,  you  feel  a  little  proud  of  your  arrange- 
ment. You  write  to  an  old  friend  in  the  country, 
that  you  are  to  marry  presently  Miss  Charlotte  of 
such  a  street,  whose  father  was  something  very 
fine,  in  his  way ;  and  whose  father  before  him  was 
very  distinguished — you  add,  in  a  postscript,  that 
she  is  easily  situated,  and  has  "  expectations." 
Your  friend,  who  has  a  wife  that  he  loves,  and 
that  loves  him,  writes  back  kindly — "  hoping  you 
may  be  happy  ;  "  and  hoping  so  yourself,  you  light 
your  cigar, — one  of  your  last  bachelor  cigars, — with 
the  margin  of  his  letter. 

The  match  goes  off  with  a  brilliant  marriage ; 
— at  which  you  receive  a  very  elegant  welcome 
from  your  wife's  spinster  cousins, — and  drink  a 
great  deal  of  champagne  with  her  bachelor  uncles. 
And  as  you  take  the  dainty  hand  of  your  bride, — 
very  magnificent  under  that  bridal  wreath,  and 


128  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

with  her  face  lit  up  by  a  brilliant  glow, — your  eye, 
and  your  soul,  for  the  first  time,  grow  full.  And 
as  your  arm  circles  that-  elegant  figure,  and  you 
draw  her  toward  you,  feeling  that  she  is  yours, — 
there  is  a  bound  at  your  heart,  that  makes  you 
think  your  soul-life  is  now  whole,  and  earnest.  All 
your  early  dreams,  and  imaginations,  come  flowing 
on  your  thought,  like  bewildering  music  ;  and  as 
you  gaze  upon  her, — the  admiration  of  that  crowd 
— it  seems  to  you,  that  all  that  your  heart  prizes,  is 
made  good  by  the  accident  of  marriage. 

— Ah — thought  I,  brushing  off  the  ashes  again, 
— bridal  pictures  are  not  home  pictures ;  and  the 
hour  at  the  altar,  is  but  a  poor  type  of  the  waste  of 
years ! 

Your  household  is  elegantly  ordered ;  Char- 
lotte has  secured  the  best  of  housekeepers,  and  she 
meets  the  compliments  of  your  old  friends  who 
come  to  dine  with  you,  with  a  suavity,  that  is 
never  at  fault.  And  they  tell  you, — after  the  cloth 
is  removed,  and  you  sit  quietly  smoking  in  memo- 
ry of  the  olden  times, — that  she  is  a  splendid 
woman.  Even  the  old  ladies  who  come  for  occa- 
sional charities,  think  Madame  a  pattern  of  a  lady ; 
and  so  think  her  old  admirers,  whom  she  receives 
still  with  an  easy  grace,  that  half  puzzles  you. 
And  as  you  stand  by  the  ball  room  door,  at  two  of 
the  morning,  with  your  Charlotte's  shawl  upon 
your  arm,  some  little  panting  fellow  will  confirm 
the  general  opinion,  by  telling  you  that  Madame  is 
a  magnificent  dancer ;  and  Monsieur  le  Comte,  will 


LIGHTED    WITH  A  MATCH.  129 

praise  extravagantly  her  French.  You  are  grateful 
for  all  this ;  but  you  have  an  uncommonly  serious 
way  of  expressing  your  gratitude. 

You  thiuk  you  ought  to  be  a  very  happy  fel- 
low ;  and  yet  long  shadows  do  steal  over  your 
thoughts ;  and  you  wonder  that  the  sight  of  your 
Charlotte  in  the  dress  you  used  to  admire  so  much, 
does  not  scatter  them  to  the  winds ;  but  it  does 
not.  You  feel  coy  about  putting  your  arm  around 
that  delicately  robed  figure, — you  might  derange 
the  plaitings  of  her  dress.  She  is  civil  toward  you ; 
and  tender  toward  your  bachelor  friends.  She 
talks  with  dignity, — adjusts  her  lace  cape, — and 
hopes  you  will  make  a  figure  in  the  world,  for  the 
sake  of  the  family.  Her  cheek  is  never  soiled  with 
a  tear ;  and  her  smiles  are  frequent,  especially  when 
you  have  some  spruce  young  fellows  at  your  table. 

You  catch  sight  of  occasional  notes  perhaps, 
whose  superscription  you  do  not  know ;  and  some 
of  her  admirers'  attentions  become  so  pointed,  and 
constant,  that  your  pride  is  stirred.  It  would  be 
silly  to  show  jealousy ;  but  you  suggest  to  your 
"  dear  " — as  you  sip  your  tea, — the  slight  impro- 
priety of  her  action. 

Perhaps  you  fondly  long  for  some  little  scene, 
as  a  proof  of  wounded  confidence ;  but  no — noth- 
ing of  that ;  she  trusts,  (calling  you  "  my  dear,") 
that  she  knows  how  to  sustain  the  dignity  of  her 
position. 

You  are  too  sick  at  heart,  for  comment,  or  for 
reply. 


130  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

And  is  this  the  intertwining  of  soul,  of 

which  you  had  dreamed  in  the  days  that  are  gone  1 
Is  this  the  blending  of  sympathies  that  was  to  steal 
from  life  its  bitterness ;  and  spread  over  care  and 
suffering,  the  sweet,  ministering  hand  of  kindness, 
and  of  love  ?  Aye,  you  may  well  wander  back  to 
your  bachelor  club,  and  make  the  hours  long  at 
the  journals,  or  at  play — killing  the  flagging  lapse 
of  your  life !  Talk  sprightly  with  your  old  friends, 
— and  mimic  the  joy  you  have  not ;  or  you  will 
wear  a  bad  name  upon  your  hearth,  and  head. 
Never  suffer  your  Charlotte  to  catch  sight  of  the 
tears  which  in  bitter  hours,  may  start  from  your 
eye ;  or  to  hear  the  sighs  which  in  your  times  of 
solitary  musings,  may  break  forth  sudden,  and 
heavy.  Go  on  counterfeiting  your  life,  as  you 
have  began.  It  was  a  nice  match  ;  and  you  are  a 
nice  husband ! 

But  you  have  a  little  boy,  thank  God,  toward 
whom  your  heart  runs  out  freely ;  and  you  love  to 
catch  him  in  his  respite  from  your  well-ordered 
nursery,  and  the  tasks  of  his  teachers — alone ; — and 
to  spend  upon  him  a  little  of  that  depth  of  feeling 
which  through  so  many  years  has  scarce  been 
stirred.  You  play  with  him  at  his  games;  you 
fondle  him ;  you  take  him  to  your  bosom. 

— But  papa — he  says — see  how  you  have  tum- 
bled my  collar.  What  shall  I  tell  mamma  ? 

Tell  her,  my  boy,  that  I  love  you  ! 

Ah,  thought  I — (my  cigar  was  getting  dull,  and 
nauseous,) — is  there  not  a  spot  in  your  heart,  that 


LIGHTED   WITH  A  MATCH.  131 

the  gloved  hand  of  your  elegant  wife  has  never 
reached : — that  you  wish  it  might  reach  ? 

You  go  to  see  a  far-away  friend  :  his  was  not 
a  '  nice  match ; '  he  was  married  years  before  you  : 
and  yet  the  beaming  looks  of  his  wife,  and  his 
lively  smile,  are  as  fresh  and  honest  as  they  were 
years  ago ;  and  they  make  you  ashamed  of  your 
disconsolate  humor.  Your  stay  is  lengthened,  but 
the  home  letters  are  not  urgent  for  your  return : 
yet  they  are  marvellously  proper  letters,  and 
rounded  with  a  French  adieu.  You  could  have 
wished  a  little  scrawl  from  your  boy  at  the  bottom, 
in  the  place  of  the  postscript  which  gives  you  the 
name  of  a  new  opera  troupe ;  and  you  hint  as  much 
— a  very  bold  stroke  for  you. 

Ben, — she  says, — writes  too  shamefully. 

And  at  your  return,  there  is  no  great  anticipa- 
tion of  delight ;  in  contrast  with  the  old  dreams, 
that  a  pleasant  summer's  journey  has  called  up, 
your  parlor  as  you  enter  it — so  elegant,  so  still — 
so  modish — seems  the  charnel-house  of  your  heart. 

By  and  by,  you  fall  into  weary  days  of  sickness ; 
you  have  capital  nurses — nurses  highly  recom- 
mended— nurses  who  never  make  mistakes — nurses 
who  have  served  long  in  the  family.  But  alas  for 
that  heart  of  sympathy,  and  for  that  sweet  face, 
shaded  with  your  pain — like  a  soft  landscape  with 
flying  clouds — you  have  none  of  them  1  Your  pat- 
tern wife  may  come  in  from  time  to  time  to  look 
after  your  nurse,  or  to  ask  after  your  sleep,  and 
glide  out — her  silk  dress  rustling  upon  the  door — 


132  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

like  dead  leaves  in  the  cool  night  breezes  of  winter. 
Or  perhaps  after  putting  this  chair  in  its  place, 
and  adjusting  to  a  more  tasteful  fold  that  curtain — • 
Bhe  will  ask  you,  with  a  tone  that  might  mean 
sympathy,  if  it  were  not  a  stranger  to  you, — if  she 
can  do  anything  more. 

Thank  her — as  kindly  as  you  can,  and  close 
your  eyes,  and  dream : — or  rouse  up,  to  lay  your 
hand  upon  the  head  of  your  little  boy, — to  drink  in 
health,  and  happiness,  from  his  earnest  look,  as  he 
gazes  strangely  upon  your  pale  and  shrunken  fore- 
head. Your  smile  even,  ghastly  with  long  suffer- 
ing, disturbs  him ;  there  is  no  interpreter,  save 
the  heart,  between  you. 

Tour  parched  lips  feel  strangely,  to  his  flushed, 
healthful  face ;  and  he  steps  about  on  tip-toe,  at  a 
motion  from  the  nurse,  "to  look  at  all  those  rosy- 
colored  medicines  upon  the  table, — and  he  takes 
your  cane  from  the  corner,  and  passes  his  hand 
over  the  smooth  ivory  head  ;  and  he  runs  his  eye 
along  the  wall  from  picture  to  picture,  till  it  rests 
on  one  he  knows, — a  figure  in  bridal  dress, — beau- 
tiful, almost  fond; — and  he  forgets  himself,  and 
says  aloud — '  there's  mamma  ! ' 

The  nurse  puts  her  finger  to  her  lip ;  you  waken 
from  your  doze  to  see  where  your  eager  boy  is 
looking ;  and  your  eyes  too,  take  in  much  as  they 
can  of  that  figure — now  shadowy  to  your  fainting 
vision — doubly  shadowy  to  your  fainting  heart ! 

From  day  to  day,  you  sink  from  life  :  the  phy- 
sician says  the  end  is  not  far  off;  why  should  it 


LIGHTED    WITH  A  MATCH.  133 

be  ?  There  is  very  little  elastic  force  within  you  to 
keep  the  end  away.  Madame  is  called,  and  your 
little  boy.  Your  sight  is  dim,  but  they  whsper 
that  she  is  beside  your  bed ;  and  you  reach  out 
your  hand — both  hands.  You  fancy  you  hear  a 
sob : — a  strange  sound !  It  seems  as  if  it  came 
from  distant  years — a  confused,  broken  sigh, 
sweeping  over  the  long  stretch  of  your  life :  and  a 
sigh  from  your  heart — not  audible — answers  it. 

Your  trembling  fingers  clutch  the  hand  of  your 
little  boy,  and  you  drag  him  toward  you,  and 
move  your  lips,  as  if  you  would  speak  to  him ; 
and  they  place  his  head  near  you,  so  that  you  feel 

his  fine  hair  brushing  your  cheek. My  boy,  you 

must  love — your  mother  ! 

Your  other  hand  feels  a  quick,  convulsive 
grasp,  and  something  like  a  tear  drops  upon  your 
face.  Good  God  ! — Can  it  be  indeed  a  tear  ? 

You  strain  your  vision,  and  a  feeble  smile  flits 
over  your  features,  as  you  seem  to  see  her  figure — 
the  figure  of  the  painting — bending  over  you  ;  and 
you  feel  a  bound  at  your  heart — the  same  bound 
that  you  felt  on  your  bridal  morning ; — the  same 
bound  which  you  used  to  feel  in  the  spring-time  of 
your  life. 

Only  one — rich,  full  bound  of  the  heart ; 

that  is  all ! 

My  cigar  was  out.    I  conld  not  have  lit 

it  again,  if  I  would     It  was  wholly  burned. 


12 


134  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"  Aunt  Tabithy  " — said  I,  as  I  finished  reading, 
— "  may  I  smoke  now  under  your  rose  tree  ?  " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  who  had  laid  down  her  knitting 
to  hear  me, — smiled, — brushed  a  tear  from  her  old 
eyes, — said, — "  Yes — Isaac,"  and  having  scratched 
the  back  of  her  head,  with  the  disengaged  needle, 
resumed  her  knitting. 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING. 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING. 


IT  is  a  spring  day  under  the  oaks — the  loved 
oaks  of  a  once  cherished  home, — now,  alas, 
mine  no  longer ! 

I  had  sold  the  old  farm-house,  and  the  groves, 
and  the  cool  springs,  where  I  had  bathed  my  head 
in  the  heats  of  summer ;  and  with  the  first  warm 
days  of  May,  they  were  to  pass  from  me  forever. 
Seventy  years  they  had  been  in  the  possession  of  my 
mother's  family ;  for  seventy  years,  they  had  borne 
the  same  name  of  proprietorship  ;  for  seventy  years, 
the  Lares  of  our  country  home,  often  neglected,  al- 
most forgotten, — yet  brightened  from  time  to  time, 
by  gleams  of  heart- worship,  had  held  their  place  in 
the  sweet  valley  of  Elmgrove. 

And  in  this  changeful,  bustling,  American  life 
of  ours,  seventy  years  is  no  child's  holiday.  The 
hurry  of  action,  and  progress,  may  pass  over  it  \\ith 
12* 


138  EEVEEIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

quick  step  ;  but  the  foot-prints  are  many  and  deep. 
You  surely  will  not  wonder  that  it  made  me  sad 
and  thoughtful,  to  break  the  chain  of  years,  that 
bound  to  my  heart,  the  oaks,  the  hills,  the 
springs,  the  valley and  such  a  valley  ! 

A  wild  stream  runs  through  it, — large  enough 
to  make  a  river  for  English  landscape, — winding 
between  rich  banks,  where  in  summer  time,  the 
swallows  build  their  nests,  and  brood  by  myriads. 

Tall  elms  rise  here  and  there  along  the  margin, 
and  with  their  uplifted  arms,  and  leafy  spray, 
throw  great  patches  of  shade  upon  the  meadow. 
Old  lion-like  oaks,  too,  where  the  meadow-soil  har- 
dens into  rolling  upland,  fasten  to  the  groi'nd  with 
their  ridgy  roots ;  and  with  their  gray,  scraggy 
limbs,  make  delicious  shelter  for  the  panting  work- 
ers, or  for  the  herds  of  August. 

Westward  of  the  stream,  where  I  am  lying,  the 
banks  roll  up  swiftly  into  sloping  hills,  covered 
with  groves  of  oaks,  and  green  pasture  lands,  dot- 
ted with  mossy  rocks.  And  farther  on,  where 
some  wood  has  been  swept  down,  some  ten  years 
gone,  by  the  axe,  the  new  growth,  heavy  with  the 
luxuriant  foliage  of  spring,  covers  wide  spots  of  the 
slanting  land  ; — while  some  dead  tree  in  the  midst, 
still  stretches  out  its  bare  arms  to  the  blast — a  soli- 
tary mourner  over  the  wreck  of  its  forest  brothers. 

Eastward  the  ridgy  bank  passes  into  wavy 
meadows,  upon  whose  farther  edge,  you  see  the 
roofs  of  an  old  mansion,  with  tall  chimneys  and 
taller  elm-trees  shading  it.  Beyond,  the  hills  rise 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.        139 

gently,  and  sweep  away  into  wood-crowned  heights, 
that  are  blue  with  distance.  At  the  upper  end  of 
the  valley,  the  stream  is  lost  to  the  eye,  in  a  wide 
swamp  wood,  which  in  the  autumn  time  is  covered 
with  a  scarlet  sheet,  blotched  here  and  there  by  the 
dark  crimson  stains  of  the  ash-tops.  Farther  on,  the 
hills  crowd  close  to  the  brook,  and  come  down 
with  granite  boulders,  and  scattered  birch  trees, 
and  beeches, — under  which,  upon  the  smoky  morn- 
ings of  May,  I  have  time  and  again  loitered,  and 
thrown  my  line  into  the  pools,  which  curl,  dark, 
and  still,  under  their  tangled  roots. 

Below,  and  looking  southward,  through  the 
openings  of  the  oaks  that  shade  me,  I  see  a  broad 
stretch  of  meadow,  with  glimpses  of  the  silver  sur- 
face of  the  stream,  and  of  the  giant  solitary  elms, 
and  of  some  old  maple  that  has  yielded  to  the 
spring  tides,  and  now  dips  its  lower  boughs  in  the 
insidious  current ; — and  of  clumps  of  alders,  and 
willow  tufts,  above  which  even  now,  the  black- 
and-white  coated  Bob-o'-Lincoln,  is  wheeling  his 
musical  flight,  while  his  quieter  mate  sits  swaying 
on  the  topmost  twigs. 

A  quiet  road  passes  within  a  short  distance  of 
me,  and  crosses  the  brook  by  a  rude  timber  bridge ; 
beside  the  bridge  is  a  broad  glassy  pool,  shaded  by 
old  maples,  and  hickories,  where  the  cattle  drink 
each  morning  on  their  way  to  the  hill  pastures.  A 
step  or  two  beyond  the  stream,  a  lane  branches 
across  the  meadows,  to  the  mansion  with  the  tall 
chimneys.  I  can  just  remember  now,  the  stout, 


140  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

broad-shouldered  old  gentleman,  with  his  white 
hat,  his  long  white  hair,  and  his  white  headed 
cane,  who  built  the  house,  and  who  farmed  the 
whole  valley  around  me.  He  is  gone,  long  since ; 
and  lies  in  a  grave-yard  looking  upon  the  sea  !  The 
elms  that  he  planted  shake  their  weird  arms  over 
the  mouldering  roofs ;  and  his  fruit-garden  shows 
only  a  battered  phalanx  of  mossy  limbs,  which  will 
scarce  tempt  the  July  marauders. 

In  the  other  direction,  upon  this  sidb  the  brook, 
the  road  is  lost  to  view,  among  the  tr&«a ;  but  if  I 
were  to  follow  the  windings  upon  the  hill-side,  it 
would  bring  me  shortly  upon  the  old  home  of  my 
grandfather;  there  is  no  pleasure  in  wandeing 
there  now.  The  woods  that  sheltered  it  from  the 
northern  winds,  are  cut  down ;  the  tall  cherries 
that  made  the  yard  one  leafy  bower,  are  dead.  The 
cornice  is  straggling  from  the  eaves  ;  the  porch  has 
fallen ;  the  stone  chimney  is  yawning  with  wide 
gaps.  Within,  it  is  even  worse ;  the  floors  sway 
upon  the  mouldering  beams ;  the  doors  all  sag 
from  their  hinges ;  the  rude  frescos  upon  the  parlor- 
wall  are  peeling  off;  all  is  going  to  decay. 

And  my  grandfather  sleeps  in  a  little  grave-yard, 
by  the  garden-wall. 

A  lane  branches  from  the  country  road,  within 
a  few  yards  of  me,  and  leads  back,  along  the  edge 
of  the  meadow,  to  the  horu,ely  cottage,  which  has 
been  my  special  care.  Its  gray  porch,  and  chimney 
are  thrown  into  rich  relief,  by  a  grove  of  oaks  that 
skirts  the  hill  behind  it ;  and  the  doves  are  flying 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.        \±\ 

» 

uneasily  about  the  open  doors  of  the  granary,  and 
barns.  The  morning  sun  shines  pleasantly  on  the 
gray  group  of  buildings ;  and  the  lowing  of  the 
cows,  not  yet  driven  afield,  adds  to  the  charming 
homeliness  of  the  scene.  But  alas,  for  the  poor 
azalias,  and  laurels,  and  vines,  that  I  had  put  out 
upon  the  little  knoll  before  the  cottage  door — they 
are  all  of  them  trodden  down :  only  one  poor 
creeper  hangs  its  loose  tresses  to  the  lattice,  all  dis- 
hevelled, and  forlorn ! 

This  bye-lane  which  opens  upon  my  farm-house, 
leaves  the  road  in  the  middle  of  a  grove  of  oaks  ; 
the  brown  gate  swings  upon  an  oak  tree, — the 
brown  gate  closes  upon  an  oak  tree.  There  is  a 
rustic  seat,  built  between  two  veteran  trees,  that 
rise  from  a  little  hillock  near  by.  Half  a  century 
ago,  there  was  a  rustic  seat  on  the  same  hillock — 
between  the  same  veteran  trees.  I  can  trace  marks 
of  the  old  blotches  upon  the  bark,  and  the  scars 
of  the  nails,  upon  the  scathed  trunks.  Time,  and 
time  again,  it  has  been  renewed.  This,  the  last, 
was  built  by  my  own  hands, — a  cheerful,  and  a 
holy  duty. 

Sixty  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  my  grandfather 
used  to  loiter  here  with  his  gun,  while  his  hounds 
lay  around  under  the  scattered  oaks.  Now  he 
sleeps,  as  I  said,  in  the  little  grave-yard  yonder, 
where  I  can  see  one  or  two  white  tablets  glimmer- 
ing through  the  foliage.  I  never  knew  him ;  he 
died,  as  the  brown  stone  table  says,  aged  twenty- 
$ix.  Yesterday  I  climbed  the  wall  that  skirts  the 


142  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

yard,  and  plucked  a  flower  from  his  tomb.  I  take 
out  now  from  my  pocket  book,  that  flower — a  frail, 
first- blooming  violet,  and  write  upon  the  slip  of 
paper,  into  which  I  have  thrust  its  delicate  stem, — 
'  From  my  grandfather's  tomb  : — 1850.' 

But  other  feet  have  trod  upon  this  knoll — far 
more  dear  to  me.  The  old  neighbors  have  some- 
times told  me,  how  they  have  seen,  forty  years  ago, 
two  rosy-faced  girls,  idling  on  this  spot,  under  the 
shade,  and  gathering  acorns,  and  making  oak-leaved 
garlands,  for  their  foreheads. Alas,  alas,  the  gar- 
lands they  wear  now,  are  not  earthly  garlands  ! 

Upon  that  spot,  and  upon  that  rustic  seat,  I  am 
lying  this  May  morning.  I  have  placed  my  gun 
against  a  tree ;  my  shot-pouch  I  have  hung  upon 
a  broken  limb.  I  have  thrown  my  feet  upon  the 
bench,  and  lean  against  one  of  the  gnarled  oaks, 
between  which  the  seat  is  built.  My  hat  is  off; 
my  book  and  paper,  are  beside  me ;  and  my  pencil 
trembles  in  my  fingers,  as  I  catch  sight  of  those 
white  marble  tablets,  gleaming  through  the  trees, 
from  the  height  above  me,  like  beckoning  angel 

faces. If  they  were  alive  ! — two  more  near,  and 

dear  friends,  in  a  world  where  we  count  friends,  by 
units ! 

It  is  morning — a  bright  spring  morning  under 
the  oaks — these  loved  oaks  of  a  once  cherished 
home.  Last  night,  I  slept  in  yonder  mansion,  un- 
der the  elms.  The  cattle  going  to  the  pasture  are 
drinking  in  the  pool  by  the  bridge  ;  the  boy  who 
drives  them,  is  making  his  shrill  halloo  echo 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.        143 

tigainst  the  hills.  The  sun  has  risen  fairly  over  the' 
eastern  heights,  and  shines  brightly  upon  the  mead- 
ow land,  and  brightly  upon  a  bend  of  the  brook 
below  me.  The  birds, — the  blue-birds  sweetest  and 
noisiest  of  them  all, — are  singing  over  me  in  the 
branches.  A  wood-pecker  is  hammering  at  a  dry 
limb  aloft ;  and  Carlo  pricks  up  his  ears,  and  lis- 
tens, and  looks  at  me, — then  stretches  out  his  head 
upon  his  paws,  in  a  warm  bit  of  the  sunshine, — and 
sleeps. 

Morning  brings  back  to  me  the  Past ;  and  the 
past  brings  up  not  only  its  actualities,  not  only  its 
events,  and  memories,  but — stranger  still, — what 
might  have  been.  Every  little  circumstance  which 
dawns  on  the  awakened  memory,  is  traced  not  only 
to  its  actual,  but  to  its  possible  issues. 

What  a  wide  world  that  makes  of  the  Past ! — 
a  great  and  gorgeous, — a  rich  and  holy  world ! 
Your  fancy  fills  it  up  artist-like ;  the  darkness  is 
mellowed  off  into  soft  shades  ;  the  bright  spots  are 
veiled  in  the  sweet  atmosphere  of  distance ;  and 
fancy  and  memory  together,  make  up  a  rich  dream- 
land of  the  past. 

And  now,  as  I  go  on  to  trace  upon  paper  some 
of  the  visions  that  float  across  that  dream-land  of 
the  Morning, — I  will  not — I  cannot  say,  how  much 
comes  fancy- wise,  and  how  much  from  this  vaulting 
memory.  Of  this,  the  kind  reader  shall  himself  be 
judge. 


The  Morning. 

ISABEL  and  I, — she  is  my  cousin,  and  is  seven 
years  old,  and  I  am  ten, — are  sitting  together  on 
the  bank  of  the  stream,  under  an  oak  tree  that  leans 
half  way  over  to  the  water.  I  am  much  stronger 
than  she,  and  taller  by  a  head.  I  hold  in  my  hands 
a  little  alder  rod,  with  which  I  am  fishing  for  the 
roach  and  minnows,  that  play  in  the  pool  below  us. 

She  is  watching  the  cork  tossing  on  the  water, 
or  playing  with  the  captured  fish  that  lie  upon  the 
bank.  She  has  auburn  ringlets  that  fall  down 
upon  her  shoulders ;  and  her  straw  hat  lies  back 
upon  them,  held  only  by  the  strip  of  ribbon,  that 
passes  under  her  chin.  But  the  sun  does  not  shine 
upon  her  head  ;  for  the  oak  tree  above  us  is  full  of 
leaves ;  and  only  here  and  there,  a  dimple  of  the 
sunlight  plays  upon  the  pool,  where  I  am  fishing. 

Her  eye  is  hazel,  and  bright;  and  now  and 
then  she  turns  it  on  me  with  a  look  of  girlish  cu- 


THE  MORNING.  145 

riosity,  as  I  lift  up  my  rod, — and  again  in  playful 
menace,  as  she  grasps  in  her  little  fingers  one  of  the 
dead  fish,  and  threatens  to  throw  it  back  upon  the 
stream.  Her  little  feet  hang  over  the  edge  of  the 
bank  ;  and  from  time  to  time,  she  reaches  down  to 
dip  her  toe  in  the  water;  and  laughs  a  girlish 
laugh  of  defiance,  as  I  scold  her  for  frightening 
away  the  fishes. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  what  if  you  should  tumble  in 
the  river  ? " 

"  But  I  won't." 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  should  ? " 

"  Why  then  you  would  pull  me  out." 

"  But  if  I  wouldn't  pull  you  out  ?  " 

"  But  I  know  you  would  ;  wouldn't  you,  Paul  t " 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  Bella  ?  " 

"  Because  you  love  Bella." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  love  Bella  ? " 

"  Because  once  you  told  me  so ;  and  because 
you  pick  flowers  for  me  that  I  cannot  reach ;  and 
because  you  let  me  take  your  rod,  when  you  have 
a  fish  upon  it." 

"  But  that's  no  reason,  Bella." 

"  Then  what  is,  Paul  ? " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Bella." 

A  little  fish  has  been  nibbling  for  a  long  time 
at  the  bait ;  the  cork  has  been  bobbing  up  and  down ; 
— and  now  he  is  fairly  hooked,  and  pulls  away 
toward  the  bank,  and  you  cannot  see  the  cork. 

— "  Here,  Bella,  quick ! " — and  she  springs  eager- 
ly to  clasp  her  little  hands  around  the  rod.  But 


146  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

the  fish  has  dragged  it  away  on  the  other  side  of 
me ;  and  as  she  reaches  farther,  and  farther,  she 
slips,  cries — "  oh,  Paul !  " — and  falls  into  the  water. 

The  stream  they  told  us,  when  we  came,  was 
over  a  man's  head — it  is  surely  over  little  Isabel's. 
I  fling  down  the  rod,  and  thrusting  one  hand  into 
the  roots  that  support  the  overhanging  bank,  I 
grasp  at  her  hat,  as  she  comes  up  ;  but  the  ribbons 
give  way,  and  I  see  the  terribly  earnest  look  upon 
her  face  as  she  goes  down  again.  Oh,  my  mother  ! 
— thought  I, — if  you  were  only  here  ! 

But  she  rises  again ;  this  time,  I  thrust  my 
hand  into  her  dress,  and  struggling  hard,  keep  her 
at  the  top,  until  I  can  place  my  foot  down  upon  a 
projecting  root ;  and  so  bracing  myself,  I  drag  her 
to  the  bank,  and  having  climbed  up,  take  hold  of 
her  belt  firmly  with  both  hands,  and  drag  her  out ; 
and  poor  Isabel,  choked,  chilled,  and  wet,  is  lying 
upon  the  grass. 

I  commence  crying  aloud.  The  workmen  in  the 
fields  hear  me,  and  come  down.  One  takes  Isabel 
in  his  arms,  and  I  follow  on  foot  to  our  uncle's 
home  upon  the  hill. 

— "  Oh  my  children  ! " — says  my  mother  ;  and 
she  takes  Isabel  in  her  arms ;  and  presently  with 
dry  clothes,  and  blazing  wood-fire,  little  Bella 
smiles  again.  I  am  at  my  mother's  knee. 

"  I  told  you  so,  Paul,"  says  Isabel, — "  aunty, 
doesn't  Paul  love  me  ? " 

"  I  hope  so,  Bella,"  said  my  mother. 

"  I  know  so,"  said  I ;  and  kissed  her  cheek. 


THE  MORNING.  H* 

And  how  did  I  know  it  ?  The  boy  does  not 
ask  ;  the  man  does.  Oh,  the  freshness,  the  honesty, 
the  vigor  of  a  boy's  heart ! — how  the  memory  of 
it  refreshes  like  the  first  gush  of  spring,  or  the 
break  of  an  April  shower  ! 

But  boyhood  has  its  PRIDE,  as  well  as  ita 
LOVES. 

My  uncle  is  a  tall,  hard-faced  man  ;  I  fear  him 
when  he  calls  me — "  child  ; "  I  love  him  when  he 
calls  me — "  Paul."  He  is  almost  always  busy  with 
his  books ;  and  when  I  steal  into  the  library  door, 
as  I  sometimes  do,  with  a  string  of  fish,  or  a  heap- 
ing basket  of  nuts  to  show  to  him,  he  looks  for  a 
moment  curiously  at  them,  sometimes  takes  them 
in  his  fingers, — gives  them  back  to  me,  and  turns 
over  the  leaves  of  his  book.  You  are  afraid  to  ask 
him,  if  you  have  not  worked  bravely  ;  yet  you  want 
to  do  so. 

You  sidle  out  softly,  and  go  to  your  mother,- 
she  scarce  looks  at  your  little  stores  ;  but  she  draws 
you  to  her  with  her  arm,  and  prints  a  kiss  upon 
your  forehead.  Now  your  tongue  is  unloosed; 
that  kiss,  and  that  action  have  done  it ;  you  will 
tell  what  capital  luck  you  have  had  ;  and  you  hold 
up  your  tempting  trophies  ; — "  are  they  not  great, 
mother  ? "  But  she  is  looking  in  your  face,  and 
not  at  your  prize. 

"  Take  them,  mother,"  and  you  lay  the  basket 
upon  her  lap. 

"  Thank  you,  Paul,  I  do  not  wish  them :  but 
you  must  give  some  to  Bella." 


148  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

And  away  you  go  to  find  laughing,  playful, 
cousin  Isabel.  And  we  sit  down  together  on  the 
grass,  and  I  pour  out  my  stores  between  us.  "  You 
shall  take,  Bella,  what  you  wish  in  your  apron, 
and  then  when  study  hours  are  over,  we  will  have 
such  a  time  down  by  the  big  rock  in  the  mead- 
ow!" 

"  But  I  do  not  know  if  papa  will  let  me,'  says 
Isabel. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  do  you  love  your  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Bella,  "  why  not  ? " 

"  Because  he  is  so  cold  ;  he  does  not  kiss  you, 
Bella,  so  often  as  my  mother  does ;  and  besides,  when 
he  forbids  your  going  away,  he  does  not  say,  as 
mother  does, — rny  little  girl  will  be  tired,  she  had 
better  not  go, — but  he  says  only, — Isabel  must  not 
go.  I  wonder  what  makes  him  talk  so  ? " 

"Why  Paul,  he  is  a  man,  and  doesn't at 

any  rate,  I  love  him,  Paul.  Besides,  my  mother  is 
sick,  you  know." 

"  But  Isabel,  my  mother  will  be  your  mother 
too.  Come  Bella,  we  will  go  ask  her  if  we  may 
go." 

And  there  I  am,  the  happiest  of  boys,  pleading 
with  the  kindest  of  mothers.  And  the  young 
heart  leans  into  that  mother's  heart ; — none  of  the 
void  now  that  will  overtake  it  like  an  opening 
Korah  gulf,  in  the  years  that  are  to  come.  It  is 
joyous,  full,  and  running  over  ! 

"  You  may  go,"  ahe  says,  "  if  your  uncle  is  will- 
ing." 


THE  MOUSING.  149 

"  But  mamma,  I  am  afraid  to  ask  him ;  7  do  not 
believe  he  loves  me." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Paul,"  and  she  draws  you  to  her 
side ;  as  if  she  would  supply  by  her  own  love,  the 
lacking  love  of  a  universe. 

"  Go,  with  your  cousin  Isabel,  and  ask  him 
kindly  ;  and  if  he  says  no, — make  no  reply." 

And  with  courage,  we  go  hand  in  hand,  and 
steal  in  at  the  library  door.  There  he  sits — I  seem 
to  see  him  now, — in  the  old  wainscotted  room,  cov- 
ered over  with  books  and  pictures ;  and  he  wears  his 
heavy-rimmed  spectacles,  and  is  poring  over  somp 
big  volume,  full  of  hard  words,  that  are  not  in  any 
spelling-book.  We  step  up  softly  ;  and  Isabel  lays 
her  little  hand  upon  his  arm ;  and  he  turns,  and 
says — "  well,  my  little  daughter  ?  " 

I  ask  if  we  may  go  down  to  the  big  rock  in  the 
meadow  ? 

He  looks  at  Isabel,  and  says  he  is  afraid — "  we 
cannot  go." 

"  But  why,  uncle  ?  It  is  only  a  little  way,  and 
we  will  be  very  careful." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  children ;  do  not  say  any 
more  :  you  can  have  the  pony,  and  Tray,  and  play 
at  home." 

"  But,  uncle " 

"  You  need  say  no  more,  my  child." 

I  pinch  the  hand  of  little  Isabel,  and  look  in  her 
eye, — my  own  half  filling  with  tears.  I  feel  that 
my  forehead  is  flushed,  and  I  hide  it  behind  Bella's 
13* 


f50  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

presses, — whispering  to  her  at  the  same  time — "let 
as  go." 

"  What,  sir,"  says  my  uncle,  mistaking  my 
^neaning — "  do  you  persuade  her  to  disobey  ? " 

Now  I  am  angry,  and  say  blindly — u  no,  sir,  I 
didn't ! "  And  then  my  rising  pride  will  not  let 
me  say,  that  I  wished  only  Isabel  should  go  out 
with  me. 

Bella  cries ;  and  I  shrink  out ;  and  am  not 
easy  until  I  have  run  to  bury  my  head  in  my 
mother's  bosom.  Alas !  pride  cannot  always  find 
such  covert !  There  will  be  times  when  it  will  har- 
ass you  strangely ;  when  it  will  peril  friendships, 
— will  sever  old,  standing  intimacy  ;  and  then — no 
resource,  but  to  feed  on  its  own  bitterness.  Hate- 
ful pride  ! — to  be  conquered,  as  a  man  would  con- 
quer an  enemy,  or  it  will  make  whirlpools  in  the 
current  of  your  affections — nay,  turn  the  whole 
tide  of  the  heart  into  rough,  and  unaccustomed 
channels  ? 

But  boyhood  has  its  GRIEF  too,  apart  from 
PRIDE. 

You  love  the  old  dog  Tray ;  and  Bella  loves 
him  as  well  as  you.  He  is  a  noble  old  fellow,  with 
shaggy  hair,  and  long  ears,  and  big  paws,  that  he 
will  put  up  into  your  hand,  if  you  ask  him.  And 
he  never  gets  angry  when  you  play  with  him,  and 
tumble  him  over  in  the  long  grass,  and  pull  his 
silken  ears.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  he  will  open 
his  mouth,  as  if  he  would  bite,  but  when  he  gets 
your  hand  fairly  in  his  jaws,  he  will  scarce  leave 


THE  MORNING.  151 

the  print  of  his  leeth  upon  it.  He  will  swim,  too, 
bravely,  and  bring  ashore  all  the  sticks  you  throw 
upon  the  water;  and  when  you  fling  a  stone  to 
tease  him,  he  swims  round  and  round,  and  whines, 
and.  looks  sorry,  that  he  cannot  find  it. 

He  will  carry  a  heaping  basket  full  of  nuts  too 
in  his  mouth,  and  never  spill  one  of  them ;  and 
when  you  come  out  to  your  uncle's  home  in  the 
spring,  after  staying  a  whole  winter  in  the  town, 
he  kn  jws  you — old  Tray  does  !  And  he  leaps  up- 
on you,  and  lays  his  paws  on  your  shoulder,  and 
licks  your  face  ;  and  is  almost  as  glad  to  see  you,  as 
cousin  Bella  herself.  And  when  you  put  Bella  on 
his  back  for  a  ride,  he  only  pretends  to  bite  her 
little  feet ; — but  he  wouldn't  do  it  for  the  world. 
Aye,  Tray  is  a  noble  old  dog  ! 

But  one  summer,  the  farmers  say  that  some  of 
their  sheep  are  killed,  and  that  the  dogs  have  wor- 
ried them  ;  and  one  of  them  comes  to  talk  with  my 
uncle  about  it. 

But  Tray  never  worried  sheep ;  you  know  he 
never  did  ;  and  so  does  nurse  ;  and  so  does  Bella ; 
— for  in  the  spring,  she  had  a  pet  lamb,  and  Tray 
never  worried  little  Fidele. 

And  one  or  two  of  the  dogs  that  belong  to  the 
neighbors  are  shot ;  though  nobody  knows  who 
shot  them ;  and  you  have  great  fears  about  poor 
Tray ;  and  try  to  keep  him  at  home,  and  fondle 
him  more  than  ever.  But  Tray  will  sometimes 
wander  off;  till  finally,  one  afternoon,  he  comes 


152  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

back  whining  piteously,  and  with  his  shoulder  a*l 
bloody. 

Little  Bella  cries  loud ;  and  you  almost  cry,  as 
nurse  dresses  the  wound,  and  poor  old  Tray  whines 
very  sadly.  You  pat  his  head,  and  Bella  pats  him ; 
and  you  sit  down  together  by  him  on  the  floor  of 
the  porch,  and  bring  a  rug  for  him  to  lie  upon ; 
and  try  and  tempt  him  with  a  little  milk,  and  Bella 
brings  a  piece  of  cake  for  him, — but  he  will  eat 
nothing.  You  sit  up  till  very  late,  long  after  Bella 
has  gone  to  bed,  patting  his  head,  and  wishing  you 
could  do  something  for  poor  Tray ; — but  he  only 
licks  your  hand,  and  whines  more  piteously  than 
ever. 

In  the  morning,  you  dress  early,  and  hurry 
down  stairs ;  but  Tray  is  not  lying  on  the  rug ; 
and  you  run  through  the  house  to  find  him,  and 
whistle,  and  call — Tray  ! — Tray  !  At  length  you 
see  him  lying  in  his  old  place,  out  by  the  cherry 
tree,  and  you  run  to  him  ; — but  he  does  not  start ; 
and  you  lean  down  to  pat  him, — but  he  is  cold, 
and  the  dew  is  wet  upon  him : — poor  Tray  is  dead  1 

You  take  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and  pat 
again  those  glossy  ears,  and  cry ;  but  you  cannot 
bring  him  to  life.  And  Bella  comes  and  cries  with 
you.  You  can  hardly  bear  to  have  him  put  in  the 
ground ;  but  uncle  says  he  must  be  buried.  So 
one  of  the  workmen  digs  a  grave  under  tbe  cherry 
tree,  where  he  died — a  deep  grave,  and  they  round 
it  over  with  earth,  and  smooth  the  sods  upon  it~ 
even  now  I  can  trace  Tray's  grave. 


THE  MORNING.  153 

You  and  Bella  together,  put  up  a  little  slab  for 
a  tombstone  and  she  hangs  flowers  upon  it,  and 
ties  them  there  with  a  bit  of  ribbon.  You  can 
scarce  play  all  that  day ;  and  afterward,  many 
weeks  later,  when  you  are  rambling  over  the  field*, 
or  lingering  by  the  brook,  throwing  off  sticks  into 
the  eddies,  you  think  of  old  Tray's  shaggy  coat, 
and  of  his  big  paw,  and  of  his  honest  eye ;  and  the 
memory  of  your  boyish  grief  comes  upon  you  ;  and 

you  say  with  tears, "  poor  Tray  1 "    And  Bella 

too,  in  her  sad,  sweet  tones,  says "poor  old 

Tray, — he  is  dead  ! " 


SCHOOL   DATS. 

THE  morning  was  cloudy  and  threatened  rain  ; 
besides,  it  was  autumn  weather,  and  the  winds 
were  getting  harsh,  and  rustling  among  the  tree- 
tops  that  shaded  the  house,  most  dismally.  I  did 
not  dare  to  listen.  If  indeed,  I  were  to  stay  by  the 
bright  fires  of  home,  and  gather  the  nuts  as  they 
fell,  and  pile  up  the  falling  leaves,  to  make  great 
bonfires,  with  Ben,  and  the  rest  of  the  boys,  I 
should  have  liked  to  listen,  and  would  have  braved 
the  dismal  morning  with  the  cheerfullest  of  them 
all.  For  it  would  have  been  a  capital  time  to  light 
a  fire  in  the  little  oven  we  had  built  under  the 
wall ;  it  would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  warm  our 
fingers  at  it,  and  to  roast  the  great  russets  on  the 
dat  stones  that  made  the  top. 

But  this  was  not  in  store  for  me.     I  had  bid 


154  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

the  town  boys  good  bye,  ^he  day  before;  my  trunk 
was  all  packed ;  I  was  to  go  away — to  school, 
The  little  oven  would  go  to  ruin — I  knew  it  would. 
I  was  to  leave  my  home.  I  was  to  bid  my  mother 
good  bye,  and  Lilly  and  Isabel  and  all  the  rest,  and 
was  to  go  away  from  them  so  far,  that  I  ahould 
only  know  what  they  were  all  doing — in  letters. 
I*  was  sacl.  And  then  to  have  the  clouds  come 
over  on  that  morning,  and  the  winds  sigh  so  dis- 
mally ;— oh,  it  was  too  bad,  I  thought  1 

It  comes  back  to  me  as  I  lie  here  this  bright 
spring  morning,  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday.  I  re- 
member that  the  pigeons  skulked  under  the  eavea 
of  the  carriage  house,  and  did  not  sit,  as  they  used 
to  do  in  summer,  upon  the  ridge ;  and  the  chickens 
huddled  together  about  the  stable  doors,  as  if  they 
were  afraid  of  the  cold  autumn.  And  in  the  gar- 
den, the  wild  hollyhocks  stood  shivering,  and  bow- 
ed to  the  wind,  as  if  their  time  had  come.  The 
yellow  muskuielons  showed  plain  among  the  frost- 
bitten vines,  and  looked  cold,  and  uncomfortable. 

Then  they  were  all  so  kind,  in-doors  !  The 

cook  made  such  nice  things  for  my  breakfast,  be* 
cause  little  master  was  going ;  Lilly  would  give  me 
her  seat  by  the  fire,  and  would  put  her  lump  of 
sugar  i'i  my  cup  ;  and  my  mother  looked  so  smil- 
ing, and  so  tenderly,  that  I  thought  I  loved  her 
more  than  I  ever  did  before.  Little  Ben  was  so  gay 
too ;  and  wanted  me  to  take  his  jack-knife,  if  I 
wished  it, — though  he  knew  that  I  had  a  bran  new 
one  in  my  trunk.  The  old  nurse  slipped  a  little 
pu-se  into  my  hand,  tied  up  with  a  green  ribbv/n — 


TEE  MOENINQ.  155 

with  money  in  it, — and  told  me  not  to  show  it  to 
Ben  or  Lilly. 

And  cousin  Isabel,  wlio  was  there  on  a  visit, 
•would  come  to  stand  by  my  chair,  when  my  mother 
was  talking  to  me  ;  and  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and 
look  up  into  my  face  ;  but  she  did  not  say  a  word. 
I  thought  it  was  very  odd ;  and  yet  it  did  not  seem 
odd  to  me  that  I  could  say  nothing  to  her.  I  dare- 
Bay  we  felt  alike. 

At  length  Ben  came  running  in,  and  said  the 
coach  had  come ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  out  of 
the  window,  \ve  saw  it — a  bright  yellow  coach, 
with  four  white  horses,  and  band-boxes  all  over 
the  top,  with  a  great  pile  of  trunks  behind.  Ben 
paid  it  was  a  grand  coach,  and  that  he  should  like 
a  ride  in  it ;  and  the  old  nurse  came  to  the  door, 
and  said  I  should  have  a  capital  time  ;  but  some- 
how I  doubted  if  the  nurse  wa\  talking  honestly. 
I  believe  she  gave  me  an  honest  «dss  though, — and 
such  a  hug ! 

But  it  was  nothing  to  my  mother's.  Tom  told 
me  to  be  a  man,  and  study  like  a  Trojan ;  but  I 
was  not  thinking  about  study  then.  There  was  a 
tall  boy  in  the  coach,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  havo 
him  see  me  en  ; — so  I  didn't  at  first.  But  I  >•> 
member  as  I  looked  back,  and  saw  little  Isabel  run 
out  into  the  middle  of  the  street,  to  see  the  coach 
go  off,  and  the  curls  floating  behind  her,  as  the  wind 
freshened,  I  felt  my  heart  leaping  into  my  throat, 
and  the  water  coming  into  my  eyes, — and  how  just 
then,  I  caught  sight  of  the  tall  boy  glancing  at  me, 
— and  how  I  tried  to  turn  it  off,  by  looking  to  see 


156  REVERIES  OF  A.  BACHELOR, 

if  I  could  button  up  my  great  coat,  a  great  deal 
lower  down  than  the  button  holes  went. 

But  it  was  of  no  use.  I  put  my  head  out  of  the 
coach  window,  and  looked  back,  as  the  little  figure 
of  Isabel  faded,  and  then  the  house,  and  the  trees  ; 
and  the  tears  did  come  ;  and  I  smuggled  my  hand- 
kerchief outside  without  turning  ;  so  that  I  could 
wipe  my  eyes,  before  the  tall  boy  should  see  me. 
They  say  that  these  shadows  of  morning  fade,  as 
the  sun  brightens  into  noon-day  ;  but  they  are  very 
dark  shadows  for  all  that ! 

Let  the  father,  or  the  mother  think  long,  before 
they  send  away  their  boy — before  they  break  the 
home-ties  that  make  a  web  of  infinite  fineness  and 
soft  silken  meshes  around  his  heart,  and  toss  him 
aloof  into  the  boy-world,  where  he  must  struggle 
up  amid  bickerings  and  quarrels,  into  his  age  of 
youth  !  There  are  boys  indeed  with  little  fineness 
in  the  texture  of  their  hearts,  and  with  little 
delicacy  of  soul,  to  whom  the  school  *n  a  distant 
village,  is  but  a  vacation  from  home ;  and  with 
whom,  a  return  revives  all  those  grosser  affections 
which  alone  existed  before ; — just  as  there  are 
plants  which  will  bear  all  exposure  without  the 
wilting  of  a  leaf,  and  will  return  to  the  hot-house 
life,  as  strong,  and  as  hopeful  as  ever.  But  there 
are  others,  to  whom  the  severance  from  the  prattle 
of  sisters,  the  indulgent  fondness  of  a  mother,  and 
the  unseen  influences  of  the  home  altar,  gives  a 
shock  that  lasts  forever ;  it  is  wrenching  with 
cruel  hand,  what  will  bear  but  little  roughness; 


THE  MORNING.  157 

and  the  sobs  with  which  the  adieux  are  said,  are 
sohs  that  may  come  back  in  the  after  years,  strong, 
and  steady,  and  terrible 

God  have  mercy  on  the  boy  who  learns  to  sob 
early !  Condemn  it  as  a  sentiment,  if  you  will ; 
talk  as  you  will  of  the  fearlessness,  and  strength  of 
the  boy's  heart, — yet  there  belong  to  many,  tender- 
ly strung  chords  of  affection  which  give  forth  low, 
and  gentle  music,  that  consoles,  and  ripens  the  ear 
for  all  the  harmonies  of  life.  These  chords  a  little 
rude,  and  unnatural  tension  will  break,  and  break 
forever.  "Watch  your  boy  then,  if  so  be  he  will 
bear  the  strain ;  try  his  nature,  if  it  be  rude  or 
delicate  ;  and  if  delicate,  in  God's  name,  do  not,  aa 
you  value  your  peace  and  his,  breed  a  harsh  youth 
spirit  in  him,  that  shall  take  pride  in  subjugating, 
and  forgetting  the  delicacy,  and  richness  of  hia 
finer  affections ! 

1  see  now,  looking  into  the  past,  the  troops 

of  boys  who  were  scattered  in  the  great  play- 
ground, as  the  coach  drove  up  at  night.  The 
school  was  in  a  tall,  stately  building,  with  a  high 
cupola  on  the  top,  where  I  thought  I  would  like  to 
go  up.  The  schoolmaster,  they  told  me  at  home, 
was  kind ;  he  said  he  hoped  I  would  be  a  good 
boy,  and  patted  me  on  the  head ;  but  he  did  not 
pat  me  as  my  mother  used  to  do.  Then  there  was 
a  woman,  whom  they  called  the  Matron  ;  who  had 
a  great  many  ribbons  in  her  cap,  and  who  shook 
my  hand, — but  so  stiffly,  that  I  didn't  dare  to  look 
up  in  her  face. 
14 


158  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

One  boy  took  me  down  to  see  the  school  room, 
which  was  in  the  basement,  and  the  walls  were  all 
mouldy,  I  remember ;  and  when  we  passed  a  cer- 
tain door,  he  said, — there  was  the  dungeon  ; — how 
I  felt !  I  hated  that  boy  ;  but  I  believe  he  is  dead 
now.  Then  the  matron  took  me  up  to  my  room, 
— a  little  corner  room,  with  two  beds,  and  two 
windows,  and  a  red  table,  and  closet ;  and  my 
chum  was  about  my  size,  and  wore  a  queer  round- 
about jacket  with  big  bell  buttons  ;  and  he  called 
the  schoolmaster — "  Old  Crikey  " — and  kept  me 
awake  half  the  night,  telling  me  how  he  whipped 
the  scholars,  and  how  they  played  tricks  upon  him. 
I  thought  my  chum  was  a  very  uncommon  boy. 

For  a  day  or  two,  the  lessons  were  easy,  and  it 
was  sport  to  play  with  so  many  "fellows."  But 
soon  I  began  to  feel  lonely  at  night  after  I  had  gone 
to  bed.  I  used  to  wish  I  could  have  my  mother 
come,  and  kiss  me ;  after  school  too,  I  wished  I 
could  step  in,  and  tell  Isabel  how  bravely  I  had  got 
my  lessons.  When  I  told  my  chum  this,  he  laugh- 
ed at  me,  and  said  that  was  no  place  for  '  homesick, 
white-livered  chaps.'  I  wondered  if  my  chum  had 
any  mother. 

We  had  spending  money  once  a  week,  with 
which  we  used  to  go  down  to  the  village  store,  and 
club  our  funds  together,  to  make  great  pitchers 
of  lemonade.  Some  boys  would  have  money  be- 
sides ;  though  it  was  against  the  rules ;  and  one,  I 
recollect,  showed  us  a  five  dollar  bill  in  his  wallet 
• — and  we  all  thought  he  must  be  very  rich, 


THE  MORNING.  log 

"We  marched  in  procession  to  the  village  church 
on  Sundays.  There  were  two  long  benches  in  the 
galleries,  reaching  down  the  sides  of  the  meeting- 
house ;  and  on  these  we  sat.  At  the  first,  I  was 
among  the  smallest  boys,  and  took  a  place  close  to 
the  wall,  against  the  pulpit ;  but  afterward,  as  I 
grew  bigger,  I  was  promoted  to  the  lower  end  of 
the  first  bench.  This  I  never  liked ; — because  it 
was  close  by  one  of  the  ushers,  and  because  it 
brought  me  next  to  some  country  women  who  wore 
stiff  bonnets,  and  eat  fennel,  and  sung  with  the 
choir.  But  there  was  a  little  black-eyed  girl,  who 
sat  over  behind,  the  choir,  that  I  thought  hand- 
some ;  I  used  to  look  at  her  very  often ;  but  was 
careful  she  should  never  catch  my  eye. 

There  was  another  down  below,  in  a  corner  pew, 
who  was  pretty ;  and  who  wore  a  hat  in  the  winter 
trimmed  with  fur.  Half  the  boys  in  the  school 
said  they  would  marry  her  some  day  or  other. 
One's  name  was  Jane,  and  that  of  the  other,  Sophia  ; 
which  we  thought  pretty  names,  and  cut  them  on 
the  ice,  in  skating  time.  But  I  didn't  think  either 
of  them  so  pretty  as  Isabel. 

Once  a  teacher  whipped  me  :  I  bore  it  bravely 
in  the  school :  but  afterward,  at  night,  when  my 
chum  was  asleep,  I  sobbed  bitterly,  as  I  thought  of 
Isabel,  and  Ben,  and  my  mother,  and  how  much 
they  loved  me  ;  and  laying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I 
sobbed  myself  to  sleep  In  the  morning  I  was 
calm  enough  : — it  was  another  of  the  heart  ties 
broken,  though  I  did  not  know  it  then.  It  less- 


160  EEVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

ened  the  old  attachment  to  home,  because  that 
home  could  neither  protect  me,  nor  soothe  me  with 
its  sympathies.  Memory  indeed  freshened  and 
grew  strong ;  but  strong  in  bitterness,  and  in  re- 
grets. The  boy  whose  love  you  cannot  feed  by 
daily  nourishment,  will  find  pride,  self-indulgence, 
and  an  iron  purpose  coming  in  to  furnish  other 
supply  for  the  soul  that  is  in  him.  If  he  cannot 
shoot  his  branches  into  the  sunshine,  he  will  become 
acclimated  to  the  shadow,  and  indifferent  to  such 
stray  gleams  of  sunshine,  as  his  fortune  may  vouch- 
safe. 

Hostilities  would  sometimes  threaten  between 
the  school  and  the  village  boys,  but  they  usually 
passed  off,  with  such  loud,  and  harmless  explo- 
sions, as  belong  to  the  wars  of  our  small  politi- 
cians. The  village  champions  were  a  hatter's  ap- 
prentice, and  a  thick  set  fellow  who  worked  in  a 
tannery.  We  prided  ourselves  especially  on  one 
stout  boy,  who  wore  a  sailor's  monkey  jacket.  I 
cannot  but  think  how  jaunty  that  stout  boy  looked 
in  that  jacket ;  and  what  an  Ajax  cast  there  was  to 
his  countenance  !  It  certainly  did  occur  to  me,  to 
compare  him  with  William  Wallace  (Miss  Porter's 
William  Wallace)  and  I  thought  how  I  would  have 
liked  to  have  seen  a  tussle  between  them.  Of 
course,  we  who  were  small  boys,  limited  ourselves 
to  indignant  remark,  and  thought  '  we  should  like 
to  see  them  do  it ; '  and  prepared  clubs  from  the 
wood-shed,  after  a  model  suggested  by  a  New 
York  boy,  who  had  seen  the  clubs  of  the  Policemen. 


THE  MORNING.  Id 

There  was  one  scholar, — poor  Leslie,  who  had 
friends  in  some  foreign  country,  and  who  occasion- 
ally received  letters  bearing  a  foreign  post-mark  : — 
what  an  extraordinary  boy  that  was  ; — what  aston- 
ishing letters ; — what  extraordinary  parents  !  I 
wondered  if  I  should  ever  receive  a  letter  from 
'  foreign  parts  ? '  I  wondered  if  I  should  ever  write 
one  : — but  this  was  too  much — too  absurd  !  As  if 
I.  Paul,  wearing  a  blue  jacket  with  gilt  buttons, 
and  number  four  boots,  should  ever  visit  those 
countries  spoken  of  in  the  geographies,  and  by 
learned  travellers  !  No,  no  ;  this  was  too  extrava- 
gant :  but  I  knew  what  I  would  do,  if  I  lived  to 
come  of  age  ; — and  I  vowed  that  I  would, — I  would 
go  to  New  York  ! 

Number  seven  was  the  hospital,  and  forbidden 
ground  ;  we  had  all  of  us  a  sort  of  horror  of  num- 
ber seven.  A  boy  died  there  once,  and  oh,  how  he 
moaned,  and  what  a  time  there  was  when  the 
father  came ! 

A  scholar  by  the  name  of  Tom  Belton,  who 
wore  linsey  gray,  made  a  dam  across  a  little  brook 
by  the  school,  and  whittled  out  a  saw-mill,  that  ac- 
tually sawed :  he  had  genius.  I  expected  to  see 
him  before  now  at  the  head  of  American  mechan- 
ics ;  but  I  learn  with  pain  that  he  is  keeping  a 
grocery  store. 

At  the  close  of  all  the  terms  we  had  exhibitions, 

to  which  all  the  towns  people  came,  and  among 

them  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and  the  pretty  Sophia 

with  fur  around  her  hat.     My  great  triumph  was 

14* 


162  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

when  I  had  the  part  of  one  of  Pizarro's  chieftains, 
the  evening  before  I  left  the  school.  How  1  did 
look  !  I  had  a  moustache  put  on  with  burnt  cork, 
and  whiskers  very  bushy  indeed ;  and  I  had  the 
militia  coat  of  an  ensign  in  the  town  company,  with 
the  skirts  pinned  up,  and  a  short  sword  very  dull, 
and  crooked,  which  belonged  to  an  old  gentleman 
who  was  said  to  have  got  it  from  some  privateer,  who 
was  said  to  have  taken  it  from  some  great  British  Ad- 
miral, in  the  old  wars  : — and  the  way  I  carried  that 
sword  upon  the  platform,  and  the  way  I  jerked  it 
out,  when  it  came  to  my  turn  to  say, — "  battle ! 
battle ! — then  death  to  the  armed,  and  chains  for 
the  defenceless  ! " — was  tremendous  ! 

The  morning  after,  in  our  dramatic  hats — black 
felt,  with  turkey  feathers, — we  took  our  place  upon 
the  top  of  the  coach  to  leave  the  school.  The  head 
master,  in  green  spectacles,  came  out  to  shake 
hands  with  us, — a  very  awful  shaking  of  hands. 
— Poor  gentleman  ! — he  is  in  his  grave  now. 

We  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  "  for  the  old 
school,"  as  the  coach  started  ;  and  upon  the  top  of 
the  hill  that  overlooks  the  village,  we  gave  another 
round — and  still  another  for  the  crabbed  old  fel- 
low, whose  apples  we  had  so  often  stolen. — I  won- 
der if  old  Bulkeley  is  living  yet  ? 

As  we  got  on  under  the  pine  trees,  I  recalled 
the  image  of  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and  of  the  other 
little  girl  in  the  corner  pew, — and  thought  how  I 
would  come  back  after  the  college  days  were  over, 
— a  man,  with  a  beaver  hat,  and  a  cane,  and  with  a 


TIIE  MORNING.  ;63 

splendid  barouche,  and  how  I  would  take  the  best 
chamber  at  the  iun,  and  astonish  the  old  school- 
master by  giving  him  a  familiar  tap  on  the  shoul- 
der ;  and  how  I  would  be  the  admiration,  and  the 
"wonder  of  the  pretty  girl,  in  the  fur-trimmed  hat ! 
Alas,  how  our  thoughts  outrun  our  deeds  ! 

For  long — long  years,  I  saw  no  more  of  my  old 
school :  and  when  at  length  the  new  view  came, 
great  changes — crashing  like  tornadoes, — had 
swept  over  my  path  !  I  thought  no  more  of  start- 
ling the  villagers,  or  astonishing  the  black-eyed 
girl.  No,  no !  I  was  content  to  slip  quietly 
through  the  little  town,  with  only  a  tear  or  two,  as 
I  recalled  the  dead  ones,  and  mused  upon  the 
emptiness  of  life  1 

THE    SEA. 

As  I  look  back,  boyhood  with  its  griefs  and 
cares  vanishes  into  the  proud  stateliness  of  youth. 
The  ambition,  and  the  rivalries  of  the  college  life, 
— its  first  boastful  importance  as  knowledge  begins 
to  dawn  on  the  awakened  mind,  and  the  ripe,  and 
enviable  complacency  of  its  senior  dignity, — all 
scud  over  my  memory,  like  this  morning  breeze 
along  the  meadows  ;  and  like  that  too,  bear  upon 
their  wing,  a  dullness — as  of  distant  ice-banks. 

Ben  has  grown  almost  to  manhood :  Lilly  is 
living  in  a  distant  home  ;  and  Isabel  is  just  bloom- 
ing into  that  sweet  age,  where  womanly  dignity 
waits  her  beauty  ; — an  age  that  sorely  puzzles  one 


164  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

who  has  grown  up  beside  her, — making  him  slow 
of  tongue,  but  very  quick  of  heart  ! 

As  for  the  rest let  us  pass  on. 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  headlands  have 
gone  down,  under  the  horizon,  like  the  city  stee- 
ples, as  you  lose  yourself  in  the  calm  of  the  coun- 
try, or  like  the  great  thoughts  of  genius,  as  you 
slip  from  the  pages  of  poets,  into  your  own  quiet 
reverie. 

The  waters  skirt  me  right  and  left :  there  is 
nothing  but  water  before,  and  only  water  behind. 
Above  me  are  sailing  clouds,  or  the  blue  vault, 
which  we  call,  with  childish  license — heaven.  The 
sails,  white  and  full,  like  helping  friends  are  push- 
ing me  on  ;  and  night  and  clay  are  distent  with  the 
winds  which  come  and  go — none  know  whence, 
and  none  know  whither.  A  land  bird  flutters 
aloft,  weary  with  long  flying ;  and  lost  in  a  world 
where  are  no  forests  but  the  careening  masts, 
and  no  foliage  but  the  drifts  of  spray.  It 
cleaves  awhile  to  the  smooth  spars,  till  urged  by 
some  homeward  yearning,  it  bears  on  in  the  face  of 
the  wind,  and  sinks,  and  rises  over  the  angry  wa- 
ters, until  its  strength  is  gone,  and  the  blue  waves 
gather  the  poor  flatterer  to  their  cold,  and  glassy 
bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond  me  but 
the  waters,  or  a  tossing  company  of  dolphins ;  all 
the  noon,  unless  some  white  sail — like  a  ghost,  stalks 
the  horizon,  there  is  still  nothing  but  the  rolling 
seas ;  all  the  evening,  after  the  sun  has  grown  big 


THE  MORNING.  1G5 

and  sunk  under  the  water  line,  and  the  moon  rises, 
white  and  cold,  to  glimmer  across  the  tops  of  the 
surging  ocean, — there  is  nothing  but  the  sea,  and 
the  sky,  to  lead  off  thought,  or  to  crush  it  with 
their  greatness. 

Hour  after  hour,  as  I  sit  in  the  moonlight  upon 
the  taffrail,  the  great  waves  gather  far  back,  and 
break, — and  gather  nearer,  and  break  louder, — and 
gather  again,  and  roll  down  swift  and  terrible  un- 
der the  creaking  ship,  and  heave  it  up  lightly  upon 
their  swelling  surge,  and  drop  it  gently  to  their 
seething,  and  yeasty  cradle, — like  an  infant  in  the 
swaying  arms  of  a  mother, — or  like  a  shadowy 
memory,  upon  the  billows  of  manly  thought. 

Conscience  wakes  in  the  silent  nights  of  ocean ; 
life  lies  open  like  a  book,  and  spreads  out  as  level 
as  the  sea.  Regrets  and  broken  resolutions  chase 
over  the  soul  like  swift-winged  night-birds,  and  all 
the  unsteady  heights  and  the  wastes  of  action,  lift 
up  distinct,  and  clear,  from  the  uneasy,  but  limpid 
depths  of  memory. 

Yet  within  this  floating  world  I  am  upon,  sym- 
pathies are  narrowed  down  ;  they  cannot  range,  as 
upon  the  land,  over  a  thousand  objects.  You  are 
strangely  attracted  towards  some  frail  girl,  whose 
pallor  has  now  given  place  to  the  rich  bloom  of  the 
sea  life.  You  listen  eagerly  to  the  chance  snatches  of 
a  song  from  below,  in  the  long  morning  watch.  You 
love  to  see  her  small  feet  tottering  on  the  unsteady 
deck ;  and  you  love  greatly  to  aid  her  steps,  and 


166  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

feel  her  weight  upon  your  arm,  as  the  ship  lurches 
to  a  heavy  sea. 

Hopes  and  fears  knit  together  pleasantly  upon 
the  ocean.  Each  day  seems  to  revive  them  ;  your 
morning  salutation,  is  like  a  welcome  after  absence, 
upon  the  shore ;  and  each  '  good  night '  has  the 
depth  and  fullness  of  a  land  '  farewell.'  And 
beauty  grows  upon  the  ocean  ;  you  cannot  certainly 
say  that  the  face  of  the  fair  gi/1-voyager  is  prettier 
than  that  of  Isabel ; — oh,  no  !~ but  you  are  certain 
that  you  cast  innocent,  and  honest  glances  upon 
her,  as  you  steady  her  walk  upon  the  deck,  far  of- 
tener  than  at  the  first ;  and  ocean  life,  and  sym- 
pathy, makes  her  kind ;  she  does  not  resent  your 
rudeness,  one  half  so  stoutly,  as  she  might  upon 
the  shore. 

She  will  even  linger  of  an  evening— pleading 
first  with  the  mother,  and  standing  beside  you, — 
her  white  hand  not  very  far  fro-Ti  yours  upon  the 
rail, — look  down  where  the  black  ship  flings  off 
with  each  plunge,  whole  garlands  of  emeralds  ;  or 
she  will  look  up  (thinking  perhaps  you  are  look- 
ing the  same  way)  into  the  skies,  in  search  of  some 
stars — which  were  her  neighbors  at  home.  And 
bits  of  old  tales  will  come  up,  as  if  they  rode  upon 
the  ocean  quietude ;  and  fragments  of  half  for- 
gotten poems,  tremulously  uttered, — either  by  rea- 
son of  the  rolling  of  the  ship,  or  some  accidental 
touch  of  that  white  hand. 

But  ocean  has  its  storms,  wLcn  fear  will  make 


THE  MORNING.  \fr 

strange,  and  holy  companionship  ;  and  even  here, 
my  memory  shifts  swiftly  and  suddenly. 

It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passengers  are  clus- 
tered, trembling,  below.  Every  plank  shakes'; 
and  the  oak  ribs  groan,  as  if  they  suffered  with 
their  toil.  The  hands  are  all  aloft ;  the  captain  is 
forward  shouting  to  the  mate  in  the  cross-trees,  and 
I  am  clinging  to  one  of  the  stanchions,  by  the  bin- 
nacle. The  ship  is  pitching  madly,  and  the  waves 
are  toppling  up,  sometimes  as  high  as  the  yard- 
arm,  and  then  dipping  away  with  a  whirl  under 
our  keel,  that  makes  every  timber  in  the  vessel 
quiver.  The  thunder  is  roaring  like  a  thousand 
cannons  ;  and  at  the  moment,  the  sky  is  cleft  with 
a  stream  of  fire,  that  glares  over  the  tops  of  the 
waves,  and  glistens  on  the  wet  decks,  and  the  spars, 
— lighting  up  all  so  plain,  that  I  can  see  the  men's 
faces  in  the  main-top,  and  catch  glimpses  of  the 
reefers  on  the  yard-arm,  clinging  like  death ; — then 
all  is  horrible  darkness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  canvas ;  the 
waves  crash  against  the  weather-bow  like  moun- 
tains ;  the  wind  howls  through  the  rigging,  or,  as 
a  gasket  gives  way,  the  sail  bellying  to  leeward, 
splits  like  the  crack  of  a  musket.  I  hear  the  cap* 
tain  in  the  lulls,  screaming  out  orders ;  and  the 
mate  in  the  rigging,  screaming  them  over,  until  the 
lightning  comes,  and  the  thunder,  deadening  their 
voices,  as  if  they  were  chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes,  I  see  a  hand  upon  the 
yard-ann  lose  his  foothold,  as  the  ship  gives  a 


168  EEVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

plunge ;  but  his  arms  are  clenched  around  the 
spar.  Before  I  can  see  any  more,  the  blackness  comes, 
and  the  thunder,  with  a  crash  that  half  deafens 
me.  I  think  I  hear  a  low  cry,  as  the  mutterings 
die  away  in  the  distance  ;  and  at  the  next  flash  of 
lightning,  which  comes  in  an  instant,  I  see  upon  the 
top  of  one  of  the  waves  alongside,  the  poor  reefer 
who  has  fallen.  The  lightning  glares  upon  his  face. 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  running  rig- 
ging, as  he  fell ;  and  I  see  it  slipping  off  the  coil  upon 
the  deck.  I  shout  madly — man  overboard  1 — and 
catch  the  rope,  when  I  can  see  nothing  again.  The 
sea  is  too  high,  and  the  man  too  heavy  for  me.  I 
shout,  and  shout,  and  shout,  and  feel  the  perspira- 
tion starting  in  great  beads  from  my  forehead,  as 
the  line  slips  through  my  fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft,  and 
takes  hold  with  me ;  and  the  cook  comes,  as  the 
coil  is  nearly  spent,  and  we  pull  together  upon 
him.  It  is  desperate  work  for  the  sailor ;  for  the 
ship  is  drifting  at  a  prodigious  rate ;  but  he  clings 
like  a  dying  man. 

By  and  by  at  a  flash,  we  see  him  on  a  crest, 
two  oars  length  away  from  the  vessel. 

"  Hold  on,  my  man  ! "  shouts  the  captain. 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  quick  ! "  says  the  poor  fel- 
low ;  and  he  goes  down  in  a  trough  of  the  sea. 
We  pull  the  harder,  and  the  captain  keeps  calling 
to  him  to  keep  up  courage,  and  hold  strong.  But 
in  the  hush,  we  can  hear  him  say — "  I  can't  hold 
out  much  longer ; — Fm  most  gone  ! " 


THE  MORNING.  1G9 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man  where  we 
can  lay  hold  of  him,  and  are  only  waiting  for  a 
good  lift  of  the  sea  to  bring  him  up,  when  the  poor 
fellow  groans  out, — "  Its  of  no  use — I  can't — good 
bye ! "  And  a  wave  tosses  the  end  of  the  rope, 
clean  upon  the  bulwarks. 

At  the  next  flash,  I  see  him  going  down  under 
the  water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint  at  heart ; 
and  wedging  myself  into  my  narrow  berth,  I  try  to 
sleep.  But  the  thunder  and  the  tossing  of  the 
ship,  and  the  face  of  the  drowning  man,  as  he  said 
good  bye, — peering  at  me  from  every  corner,  will 
not  let  me  sleep. 

Afterward,  come  quiet  sens,  over  which  we 
boom  along,  leaving  in  our  track,  at  night,  a  broad 
path  of  phosphorescent  splendor.  The  sailors  bus- 
tle around  the  decks,  as  if  they  had  lost  no  com- 
rade ;  and  the  voyagers  losing  the  pallor  of  fear, 
look  out  earnestly  for  the  land. 

At  length  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  coveted  fields 
of  Britain ;  and  in  a  day  more,  the  bright  face, 
looking  out  beside  me,  sparkles  at  sight  of  the  sweet 
cottages,  which  lie  along  the  green  Essex  shores. 
Broad  sailed  yachts,  looking  strangely,  yet  beauti- 
fully, glide  upon  the  waters  of  the  Thames,  like 
swans  ;  black  square-rigged  colliers  from  the  Tyne, 
lie  grouped  in  sooty  cohorts ;  and  heavy  three- 
decked  Indiamen, — of  which  I  had  read  in  story 
books, — drift  slowly  down  with  the  tide.  Dingy 
steamers,  with  white  pipes,  and  with  red  pipes, 


170  EEVEEIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

whiz  past  us  to  the  sea ;  and  now,  my  eye  rests  on 
the  great  palace  of  Greenwich ;  I  see  the  wooden- 
legged  pensioners  smoking  under  the  palace  walls  ; 
and  above  them  upon  the  hill — as  Heaven  is  true 
— that  old,  fabulous  Greenwich,  the  great  centre 
of  school-boy  Longitude. 

Presently  from  under  a  cloud  of  murky  smoke 
heaves  up  the  vast  dome  of  St.  Paul's  and  the  tall 
Column  of  the  Fire,  and  the  white  turrets  of  Lon- 
don Tower.  Our  ship  glides  through  the  massive 
dock  gates,  and  is  moored,  amid  the  forest  of 
masts,  which  bears  golden  fruit  for  Britons. 

That  night,  I  sleep  far  away  from  "the  old 
school,"  and  far  away  from  the  valley  of  Hill- 
fat'm ;  long,  and  late,  I  toss  upon  my  bed,  with 
sweet  visions  in  my  mind  of  London  Bridge,  and 
Temple  Bar,  and  Jane  Shore,  and  Falstaff,  and 
Prince  Hal,  and  King  Jamie.  And  when  at  length 
I  fall  asleep,  my  dreams  are  very  pleasant,  but  they 
carry  me  across  the  ocean,  away  from  the  ship, — 
away  from  London, — away  even  from  the  fair  voy- 
ager,— to  the  old  oaks,  and  to  the  brooks,  and — to 
thy  side — sweet  Isabel ! 

THE    FATHER-LAND. 

THERE  is  a  great  contrast  between  the  easy 
deshabille  of  the  ocean  life,  and  the  prim  attire,  and 
conventional  spirit  of  the  land.  In  the  first,  there 
are  but  few  to  please,  and  these  few  are  known, 
and  they  know  us ;  upon  the  shore,  there  is  a  world 


THE  MORNING.  17] 

to  humor,  and  a  world  of  strangers.  In  a  brilliant 
drawing-room  looking  out  upon  the  site  of  old 
Charing-Cross,  and  upon  the  one-armed  Nelson 
standing  aloft  at  his  coil  of  rope,  I  take  leave  of 
the  fair  voyager  of  the  sea.  Her  white  neglig6  has 
given  place  to  silks ;  and  the  simple  careless  coifte 
of  the  ocean,  is  replaced  by  the  rich  dressing  of  a 
modiste.  Yet  her  face  has  the  same  bloom  upon 
it ;  and  her  eye  sparkles,  as  it  seems  to  me,  with  a 
higher  pride ;  and  her  little  hand  has  I  think  a 
tremulous  quiver  in  it,  (I  am  sure  my  own  has) — as 
I  bid  her  adieu,  and  take  up  the  trail  of  my  wan- 
derings into  the  heart  of  England. 

Abuse  her,  as  we  will, — pity  her  starving  peas- 
antry, as  we  may, — smile  at  her  court  pageantry, 
as  much  as  we  like, — old  England  is  dear  old  Eng- 
land still.  Her  cottage  homes,  her  green  fields,  her 
castles,  her  blazing  firesides,  her  church  spires  are 
as  old  as  song  ;  and  by  song  and  story,  we  inherit 
them  in  our  hearts.  This  joyous  boast,  was,  I  re- 
member, upon  my  lip,  as  I  first  trode  upon  the  rich 
meadow  of  Runnymede  ;  and  recalled  that  GREAT 
CHARTER  wrested  from  the  king,  which  made  the 
first  stepping  stone  towards  the  bounties  of  our 
western  freedom. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over  the  West- 
ern Saxon,  as  he  strolls  first  along  the  green  bye- 
lanes  of  England,  and  scents  the  hawthorn  in  its 
April  bloom,  and  lingers  at  some  quaint  stile,  to 
watch  the  rooks  wheeling  and  cawing  around  some 
lofty  elm  tops,  and  traces  the  carved  gables  of 


172  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

some  old  country  mansion  that  lies  in  their  shadow, 
and  hums  some  fragment  of  charming  English  poesy, 
that  seems  made  for  the  scene  !  This  is  not  sight- 
seeing, nor  travel ;  it  is  dreaming  sweet  dreams, 
that  are  fed  with  the  old  life  of  Books. 

I  wander  on,  fearing  to  break  the  dream,  by  a 
swift  step ;  and  winding  and  rising  between  the 
blooming  hedgerows,  I  come  presently  to  the  sight 
of  some  sweet  valley  below  me,  where  a  thatched 
hamlet  lies  sleeping  in  the  April  sun,  as  quietly  as 
the  dead  lie  in  history ; — no  sound  reaches  me  save 

occasional  clinck  of  the  smith's  hammer,  or  the 
hedgeman's  bill-hook,  or  the  ploughman's  '  ho- 
tup  ! '  from  the  hills.  At  evening,  listening  to  the 
nightingale,  I  stroll  wearily  into  some  close-nestled 
village,  that  I  had  seen  long  ago  from  a  rolling 
height.  It  is  far  away  from  the  great  lines  of 
travel ; — and  the  children  stop  their  play  to  have  a 
look  at  me,  and  the  rosy-faced  girls  peep  from  be- 
hind half-opened  doors. 

Standing  apart,  and  with  a  bench  on  either  side 
of  the  entrance,  is  the  inn  of  the  Eagle  and  the 
Falcon, — which  guardian  birds,  some  native  Dick 
Tinto  has  pictured  upon  the  swinging  sign-board 
at  the  corner.  The  hostess  is  half  ready  to  embrace 
me,  and  treats  me  like  a  prince  in  disguise.  She 
shows  me  through  the  tap-room  into  a  little  parlor, 
with  white  curtains,  and  with  neatly  framed  prints 
of  the  old  patriarchs.  Here,  alone,  beside  a  brisk 
fire,  kindled  with  furze,  I  watch  the  white  flame 
leaping  playfully  through  the  black  lumps  of  coal, 


THE  MORNING.  173 

afd  enjoy  tlie  best  fare  of  the  Eagle  and  the  Falcon. 
If  too  late,  or  too  early  for  her  garden  stock,  the 
hostess  bethinks  herself  of  some  small  pot  of  jelly 
in  an  out-of-the-way  cupboard  of  the  house,  and 
setting  it  temptingly  in  her  prettiest  dish,  she  coyly 
slips  it  upon  the  white  cloth,  with  a  modest  regret 
that  it  is  no  better ;  and  a  little  evident  satisfaction 
— that  it  is  so  good. 

I  muse  for  an  hour  before  the  glowing  fire,  as 
quiet  as  the  cat  that  has  come  in,  to  bear  me  com- 
pany ;  and  at  bed-time,  I  find  sheets,  as  fresh  as 
the  air  of  the  mountains. 

At  another  time,  and  many  months  later,  I  am 
walking  under  a  wood  of  Scottish  firs.  It  is  near 
night-fall,  and  the  fir  tops  are  swaying,  and  sigh- 
ing hoarsely,  in  the  cool  wind  of  the  Northern 
Highlands.  There  is  none  of  the  smiling  land- 
scape of  England  about  me  ;  and  the  crags  of  Ed- 
inburgh and  Castle  Stirling,  and  sweet,  Perth,  in 
its  silver  valley,  are  far  to  the  southward.  The 
larchs  of  Athol  and  Bruar  Water,  and  that  high- 
land gem — Dunkeld,  are  passed.  I  am  tired  with 
a  morning's  tramp  over  Culloden  Moor ;  and  from 
the  edge  of  the  wood,  there  stretch  before  me  in 
the  cool  gray  twilight,  broad  fields  of  heather.  In 
the  middle,  there  rise  against  the  night-sky,  the 
turrets  of  a  castle ;  it  is  Castle  Cawdor,  where 
King  Duncan  T\rns  murdered  by  Macbeth. 

The  sight  of  it  lends  a  spur  to  my  weary  step ; 
and  emerging  from  the  wood,  I  bound  over  the 
springy  heather.  In  an  hour,  I  clamber  a  broken 


174  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

wall,  and  come  under  the  frowning  shadows  of  the 
castle.  The  ivy  clambers  up  here,  and  there,  and 
shakes  its  uncropped  branches,  and  its  dried  ber- 
ries over  the  heavy  portal.  I  cross  the  moat,  and 
my  step  makes  the  chains  of  the  draw-bridge  rat- 
tle. All  is  kept  in  the  old  state ;  only  in  lieu  of 
the  warder's  horn,  I  pull  at  the  warder's  bell.  The 
echoes  ring,  and  die  in  the  stone  courts  ;  but  there 
is  no  one  astir,  nor  is  there  a  light  at  any  of  the 
castle  windows.  I  ring  again,  and  the  echoes 
come,  and  blend  with  the  rising  night  wind  that 
sighs  around  the  turrets,  as  they  sighed  that  night 
of  murder.  I  fancy — it  must  be  a  fancy, — that  I 
hear  an  owl  scream ;  I  am  sure  that  I  hear  the 
crickets  cry. 

I  sit  down  upon  the  green  bank  of  the  moat ;  a 
little  dark  water  lies  at  the  bottom.  The  walls  rise 
from  it  gray,  and  s'tern  in  the  deepening  shadows. 
I  hum  chance  passages  of  Macbeth,  listening  for  the 
echoes — echoes  from  the  wall ;  and  echoes  from 
that  far  away  time,  when  I  stole  the  first  reading 
of  the  tragic  story. 

"  Did'st  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 
I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended? 
Ay. 
Hark  1 " 

And  the  sharp  echo  comes  back '  hark  ! ' 

And  at  dead  of  night,  in  the  thatched  cottage  un- 


THE  MORNING.  175 

der  the  castle  walls,  where  a  dark  faced,  Gaelic 
woman,  in  plaid  turban,  is  my  hostess,  I  wake, 
startled  by  the  wind,  and  my  trembling  lips  say 
involuntarily — '  hark  1 ' 

Again,  three  months  later,  I  am  in  the  sweet 
county  of  Devon.  Its  valleys  are  like  emerald  ;  its 
threads  of  waters  stretched  over  the  fields,  by  their 
provident  husbandry,  glisten  in  the  broad  glow  of 
summer,  like  skeins  of  silk.  A  bland  old  farmer,  of 
the  true  British  stamp,  is  my  host.  On  market  days 
he  rides  over  to  the  old  town  of  Totness  in  a  trim, 
black,  farmer's  cart ;  and  he  wears  glossy  topped 
boots,  and  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat.  I  take  a 
vast  deal  of  pleasure  in  listening  to  his  honest, 
straight-forward  talk  about  the  improvements  of 
the  day  and  the  state  of  the  nation.  I  sometimes 
get  upon  one  of  his  nags,  and  ride  off  with  him 
over  his  fields,  or  visit  the  homes  of  the  laborers, 
which  show  their  gray  roofs,  in  every  charming 
nook  of  the  landscape.  At  the  parish  church,  I 
doze  against  the  high  pew  backs,  as  I  listen  to  the 
see-saw  tones  of  the  drawling  curate ;  and  in  my 
half  wakeful  moments,  the  withered  holly  sprigs 
(not  removed  since  Easter)  grow  upon  my  vision, 
into  Christmas  boughs,  and  preach  sermons  to  me 
— of  the  days  of  old. 

Sometimes,  I  wander  far  over  the  hills  into  a 
neighboring  park  ;  and  spend  hours  on  hours,  un- 
der the  sturdy  oaks,  watching  the  sleek  fallow 
deer,  gazing  at  me  with  their  soft  liquid  eyes.  The 
squirrels,  too,  play  above  me,  with  their  daring 


176  REVERIES  OF  A   BAC:iELOli. 

leaps,  utterly  careless  of  my  presence,  and  the 
pheasants  whir  away  from  my  very  feet. 

On  one  of  these  random  strolls — I  remember  it 
very  well — when  I  was  idling  along,  thinking  of 
the  broad  reach  of  water  that  lay  between  me,  and 
that  old  forest  home, — and  beating  off  the  daisy 
heads  with  my  cane, — I  heard  the  tramp  of  horses, 
coming  up  one  of  the  forest  avenues.  The  sound 
was  unusual,  for  the  family,  I  had  been  told,  was 
still  in  town,  and  no  right  of  way  lay  through  the 
park.  There  they  were,  however : — I  was  sure  it 
must  be  the  family,  from  the  careless  way  in  which 
they  came  sauntering  up. 

First,  there  was  a  noble  hound  that  came 
bounding  toward  me, — gazed  a  moment,  and  turned 
to  watch  the  approach  of  the  little  cavalcade. 
Next  was  an  elderly  gentleman  mounted  upon  a 
spirited  hunter,  attended  by  a  boy  of  some  dozen 
years,  who  managed  his  pony  with  a  grace,  that  is 
a  part  of  the  English  boy's  education.  Then  fol- 
lowed two  older  lads,  and  a  travelling  phaeton,  in 
which  sat  a  couple  of  elderly  ladies.  But  what 
most  drew  my  attention  was  a  girlish  figure,  that 
rode  beyond  the  carriage,  upon  a  sleek-limbed 
gray.  There  was  something  in  the  easy  grace  of 
her  attitude,  and  the  rich  glow  that  lit  up  her  face 
— heightened  as  it  was,  by  the  little  black  riding 
cap,  relieved  with  a  single  flowing  plume, — that 
kept  my  eye.  It  was  strange,  but  I  thought  I 
had  seen  such  a  figure  before,  and  such  a  face,  and 
such  an  eye ;  and  as  I  made  the  ordinary  saluta- 


THE  MOUSING.  177 

tion  of  a  stranger,  and  caught  her  smile,  I  could 
have  sworn  that  it  was  she — my  fair  companion 
of  the  ocean.  The  truth  flashed  upon  me  in  a  mo- 
ment. She  was  to  visit,  she  had  told  me,  a  friend 
in  the  south  of  England ; — and  this  was  the 
friend's  home ; — and  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  car- 
riage was  her  mother ;  and  one  of  the  lads,  the 
school-boy  brother,  who  had  teased  her  on  the 
sea. 

I  recal  now  perfectly,  her  frank  manner,  as  she 
ungloved  her  hand  to  bid  me  welcome.  I  strolled 
beside  them  to  the  steps.  Old  Devon  had  sud- 
denly renewed  its  beauties  for  me.  I  had  much  to 
tell  her,  of  the  little  out-lying  nooks,  which  my 
wayward  feet  had  led  me  to  :  and  she — as  much  to 
ask.  My  stay  with  the  bland  old  farmer  length- 
ened ;  and  two  days'  hospitalities  at  the  Park  ran 
over  into  three,  and  four.  There  was  hard  galloping 
down  these  avenues ;  and  new  strolls,  not  at  all 
lonely,  under  the  sturdy  oaks.  The  long  summer 
twilight  of  England  used  to  find  a  very  happy  fel- 
low lingering  on  the  garden  terrace, — looking,  now 
at  the  rookery,  where  the  belated  birds  quarreled 
for  a  resting  place,  and  now  down  the  long  forest 
vista,  gray  with  distance,  and  closed  with  the 
white  spire  of  Madbury  church. 

English  country  life  gains  fast  upon  one — very 
fast ;  and  it  is  not  so  easy,  as  in  the  drawing-room 
of  Charing  Cross  to  say — adieu  !  But  it  is  said — 
very  sadly  said ;  for  God  only  knows  how  long  it 
is  to  last.  And  as  I  rode  slowly  down  toward  the 


178  KEVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

lodge  after  my  leave-taking,  I  turned  back  again, 
and  again.  I  thought  I  saw  her  standing  still  up- 
on the  terrace,  though  it  was  almost  dark  ;  and  I 
thought — it  could  hardly  have  been  an  illusion — 
that  I  saw  something  white  waving  from  her  hand. 

Her  name — as  if  I  could  forget  it — was  Caro- 
line ;  her  mother  called  her — Carry.  I  wondered 
how  it  would  seem  for  me  to  call  her — Carry  !  I 
tried  it ; — it  sounded  well.  I  tried  it — over  and 
over, — until  I  came  too  near  the  lodge.  There  I 
threw  a  half  crown  to  the  woman  who  opened  the 
gate  for  me.  She  curtsied  low,  and  said — "God 
bless  you,  sir  ! " 

I  liked  her  for  it ;  I  would  have  given  a  guinea 
for  it :  and  that  night, — whether  it  was  the  old 
woman's  benediction,  or  the  waving  scarf  upon  the 
terrace,  I  do  not  know;  but  there  was  a  charm 
upon  my  thought,  and  my  hope,  as  if  an  angel  had 
been  near  me. 

It  passed  away  though  in  my  dreams ;  for  I 
dreamed  that  I  saw  the  sweet  face  of  Bella  in  an 
English  park,  and  that  she  wore  a  black  velvet 
riding  cap,  with  a  plume ;  and  I  came  up  to  her 
and  murmured,  very  sweetly,  I  thought, — "  Carry, 
dear  Carry  ! "  and  she  started,  looking  sadly  at  me, 
and  turned  away.  I  ran  after  her,  to  kiss  her  as  I 
did  when  she  sat  upon  my  mother's  lap,  on  the  day 
when  she  came  near  drowning :  I  longed  to  tell 
her,  as  I  did  then — I  do  love  you.  But  she  turned 
her  tearful  face  upon  me,  I  dreamed ;  and  then, — 
Lsaw  no  more. 


THE  MORNING.  179 

A   ROMAN    GIRL. 

I  KEMEMBEK  the  very  words — "  non  parlo  Fran- 
cese,  Signore, — I  do  not  speak  French,  Signer" — said 
the  stout  lady, — "  but  my  daughter,  perhaps,  will 
understand  you." 

And  she  called — "  Enrico, !  Enrico, !  venUe  suli- 
to  !  c1  e  unforestiere" 

And  the  daughter  came,  her  light  brown  hair 
falling  carelessly  over  her  shoulders,  her  rich  hazel 
eye  twinkling  and  full  of  life,  the  color  coming 
and  going  upon  her  transparent  cheek,  and  her 
bosom  heaving  with  her  quick  step.  With  one 
hand  she  put  back  the  scattered  locks  that  had 
fallen  over  her  forehead,  while  she  laid  the  other 
gently,  upon  the  arm  of  her  mother,  and  asked  in 
that  sweet  music  of  the  south — "  cosa  volete,  mam- 
ma f  " 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  I  had  seen  in  many 
a  day ;  and  this,  notwithstanding  I  was  in  Rome, 
and  had  come  that  very  morning  from  the  Palace 
of  Borghese. 

The  stout  lady  was  my  hostess,  and  Enrica — so 
fair,  so  young,  so  unlike  in  her  beauty,  to  other 
Italian  beauties,  was  my  landlady's  daughter.  The 
house  was  one  of  those  tall  houses — very,  very  old, 
which  stand  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  Corso, 
looking  out  upon  the  Piazzo  di  Colonna.  The 
staircases  were  very  tall,  and  dirty,  and  they  were 
narrow  and  dark.  Four  flights  of  stone  steps  led 
up  to  the  corridor  where  they  lived.  A  little  trap 


180  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

was  in  the  door ;  and  there  was  a  bell-rope,  at  the 
least  touch  of  which,  I  was  almost  sure  to  hear  trip- 
ping feet  run  along  the  stone  floor  within,  and 
then  to  see  the  trap  thrown  slyly  back,  and  those 
deep  hazel  eyes  looking  out  upon  me  ;  and  then  the 
door  would  open,  and  along  the  corridor,  under  the 
daughter's  guidance,  (until  I  had  learned  the  way,) 
I  passed  to  my  Roman  home.  I  was  a  long  time 
learning  the  way. 

My  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Corso,  and  I 
could  catch  from  it  a  glimpse  of  the  top  of  the  tall 
column  of  Antoninus,  and  of  a  fragment  of  the  pal- 
ace of  the  Governor.  My  parlor,  which  was  separated 
from  the  apartments  of  the  family  by  a  narrow  cor- 
ridor, looked  upon  a  small  court,  hung  around  with 
balconies.  From  the  upper  one,  a  couple  of  black- 
eyed  girls  are  occasionally  looking  out,  and  they 
can  almost  read  the  title  of  my  book,  when  I  sit  by 
the  window.  Below  are  three  or  four  blooming 
ragazze,  who  are  dark-eyed,  and  have  Roman  lux- 
uriance of  hair.  The  youngest  is  a  friend  of  our 
Enrica,  and  is  of  course  frequently  looking  up,  with 
all  the  innocence  in  the  world,  to  see  if  Enrica  may 
be  looking  out. 

Night  after  night,  a  bright  blaze  glows  upon  my 
hearth,  of  the  alder  faggots  which  they  bring  from 
the  Albanian  hills.  Night  after  night  too,  the  fam- 
ily come  in,  to  aid  my  blundering  speech,  and  to 
enjoy  the  rich  sparkling  of  my  faggot  fire.  Little 
Cesare,  a  dark-faced  Italian  boy,  takes  up  his  posi- 
tion with  pencil  and  slate,  and  draws  by  the  light 


THE  MORNIN&.  181 

of  the  blaze  genii  and  castles.  The  old  one-eyed 
teacher  of  Enrica,  lays  his  snuff  box  upon  the  table, 
and  his  handkerchief  across  his  lap,  and  with  his 
spectacles  upon  his  nose,  and  his  big  fingers  on  the 
lesson,  runs  through  the  French  tenses  of  the  verb 
arfiare.  The  father  a  sallow-faced,  keen-eyed  man, 
with  true  Italian  visage,  sits  with  his  arms  upon 
the  elbows  of  his  chair,  and  talks  of  the  Pope,  or 
of  the  weather.  A  spruce  count  from  the  Marches 
of  Ancona,  wears  a  heavy  watch  seal,  and  reads 
Dante  with  furore.  The  mother,  with  arms  akim- 
bo, looks  proudly  upon  her  daughter,  and  counts 
her,  as  well  she  may,  a  gem  among  the  Roman 
beauties. 

The  table  was  round,  with  the  fire  blazing  on 
one  side  ;  there  was  scarce  room  for  but  three  upon 
the  other.  Signer  il  maestro  was  one— then  En- 
rica, and  next — how  well  I  remember  it — came 
myself.  For  I  could  sometimes  help  Enrica  to  a 
word  of  French  ;  and  far  oftener  she  could  help  me 
to  a  word  of  Italian.  Her  face  was  rich,  and  full 
of  feeling ;  I  used  greatly  to  love  to  watch  the 
puzzled  expressions  that  passed  over  her  forehead, 
as  the  sense  of  some  hard  phrase  escaped  her ; — • 
and  better  still,  to  see  the  happy  smile  as  she 
caught  at  a  glance,  the  thought  of  some  old  scho- 
lastic Frenchman,  and  transferred  it  into  the  liquid 
melody  of  her  speech. 

She  had  seen  just  sixteen  summers,  and  only 
that  very  autumn  was  escaped  from  the  thraldom 
of  a  convent,  upon  the  skirts  of  Rome.  She  knew 
16 


182  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

nothing  of  life,  but  the  life  of  feeling;  and  all 
thoughts  of  happiness,  lay  as  yet  in  her  childish 
hopes.  It  was  pleasant  to  look  upon  her  face ;  and 
it  was  still  more  pleasant  to  listen  to  that  sweet 
Roman  voice.  What  a  rich  flow  of  superlatives, 
and  endearing  diminutives,  from  those  vermillion 
lips !  Who  would  not  have  loved  to  study,  and 
who  would  not  have  loved — without  meaning  it — 
the  teacher  ? 

In  those  days,  I  did  not  linger  long  at  the 
tables  of  lame  Pietro  in  the  Via  Condotti ;  but 

would  hurry  back  to  my  little  Roman  parlor 

the  fire  was  so  pleasant !  And  it  was  so  pleasant 
to  greet  Enrica  Avith  her  mother,  even  before  the 
one-eyed  maestro  had  come  in  ;  and  it  was  pleasant 
to  unfold  the  book  between  us,  and  to  lay  my  hand 
upon  the  page — a  small  page — where  hers  lay  al- 
ready. And  when  she  pointed  wrong,  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  correct  her — over  and  over ; — insisting,  that 
her  hand  should  be  here,  and  not  there,  and  lifting 
those  little  fingers  from  one  page;  and  putting  them 
down  upon  the  other.  And  sometimes,  half  pro- 
yoked  with  my  fault-finding,  she  would  pat  my 
hand  smartly  with  hers ; — but  when  I  looked  in 
her  face  to  know  what  that  could  mean,  she  would 
meet  my  eye  with  such  a  kind  submission,  and 
half  earnest  regret,  as  made  me  not  only  pardon  the 
offence, — but  tempt  me  to  provoke  it  again. 

Through  all  the  days  of  Carnival,  when  I  rode 
pelted  with  confetti  and  pelting  back,  my  eyes 
used  to  wander  up,  from  a  long  way  off,  to  that 


THE  MORNING.  183 

tall  house  upon  the  Corso,  where  I  was  sure  to 
meet,  again  and  again,  those  forgiving  eyes,  and 
that  soft  brown  hair,  all  gathered  under  the  little 
brown  sombrero,  set  off  with  one  pure  white  plume. 
And  her  hand  full  of  bon-bons,  she  would  shake  at 
me  threateningly  ;  and  laugh — a  musical  laugh — as 
I  bowed  my  head  to  the  assault,  and  recovering 
from  the  shower  of  missiles,  would  turn  to  throw 
my  stoutest  bouquet  at  her  balcony.  At  night,  I 
would  bear  home  to  the  Roman  parlor,  my  best 
trophy  of  the  day,  as  a  guerdon  for  Enrica ;  and 
Enrica  would  be  sure  to  render  in  acknowledg- 
ment, some  carefully  hidden  flowers,  the  prettiest 
that  her  beauty  had  won. 

Sometimes  upon  those  Carnival  nights,  she  ar- 
rays herself  in  the  costume  of  the  Albanian  water- 
carriers  ;  and  nothing,  one  would  think,  could  be 
prettier  than  the  laced  crimson  jacket,  and  the 
strange  head  gear  with  its  trinkets,  and  the  short 
skirts  leaving  to  view  as  delicate  an  ankle  as  could 
be  found  in  Rome.  Upon  another  night,  she  glides 
into  my  little  parlor,  as  we  sit  by  the  blaze,  in  a 
close  velvet  boddice,  and  with  a  Swiss  hat  caught 
up  by  a  looplet  of  silver,  and  adorned  with  a  full 
blown  rose — nothing  you  think  could  be  prettier 
than  tbia  Again,  in  one  of  her  girlish-freaks,  she 
robes  herself  like  a  nun  ;  and  with  the  heavy  black 
serge,  for  dress,  and  the  funereal  veil, — relieved 
only  by  the  plain  white  ruffle  of  her  cap — you  wish 
she  were  always  a  nun.  But  the  wish  vanishes, 
when  you  see  her  in  a  pure  white  muslin,  with  a 


184  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

wreath  of  orange  blossoms  about  her  forehead,  and 
a  single  white  rose-bud  in  her  bosom. 

Upon  the  little  balcony  Eurica  keeps  a  pot  or 
two  of  flowers,  which  bloom  all  winter  long  :  and 
each  morning,  I  find  upon  my  table  a  fresh  rose-bud ; 
each  night,  I  bear  back  for  thank-offering,  the  pret- 
tiest bouquet  that  can  be  found  in  the  Via  Con- 
dotti.  The  quiet  fire-side  evenings  come  back ; — 
in  which  my  hand  seeks  its  wonted  place  upon  her 
book ;  and  my  other,  will  creep  around  upon  the 
back  of  Enrica's  chair,  and  Enrica  witt  look  indig- 
nant,— and  then  all  forgiveness. 

One  day  I  received  a  large  pacquet  of  letters : — 
ah,  what  luxury  to  lie  back  in  my  big  arm-chair, 
there  before  the  crackling  faggots,  with  the  pleas- 
ant rustle  of  that  silken  dress  beside  me,  and  run 
over  a  second,  and  a  third  time,  those  mute  paper 
missives,  which  bore  to  me  over  so  many  miles  of 
water,  the  words  of  greeting,  and  of  love !  It 
would  be  worth  travelling  to  the  shores  of  the 
jEgean,  to  find  one's  heart  quickened  into  such  life 
as  the  ocean  letters  will  make.  Enrica  threw  down 
her  book,  and  wondered  what  could  be  in  them  ? 
— and  snatched  one  from  my  hand,  and  looked  with 
sad,  but  vain  intensity  over  that  strange  scrawl. — 
What  can  it  be  ? — said  she ;  and  she  laid  her  finger 
upon  the  little  half  line—"  Dear  Paul." 

I  told  her  it  was — "  Cnro  miv." 

Enrica  laid  it  upon  her  lap,  and  looked  in  my 
face  ;  "  It  is  from  your  mother  ? "  said  she ; 

"  No,"  said  I. 


THE  MORNING.  185 

From  your  sister  ? "  said  she. 

"  Alas,  no  ! " 

"  11  vostro  fratello,  dunque  f  " 

" Nemmeno" — said  I — "not  from  a  brother 
either." 

She  handed  me  the  letter,  and  took  up  her 
book ;  and  presently  she  laid  the  book  down 
again  ;  and  looked  at  the  letter,  and  then  at  me ; — 
and  went  out. 

She  did  not  come  in  again  that  evening ;  in  the 
morning,  there  was  no  rose-bud  on  my  table.  And 
when  I  came  at  night,  with  a  bouquet  from  Pietro's 
at  the  corner,  she  asked  me — "  who  had  written  my 
letter  ? " 

"  A  very  dear  friend,"  said  I. 

"  A  lady  ? "  continued  she. 

"  A  lady,"  said  I. 

"  Keep  this  bouquet  for  her,"  said  she,  and  put 
it  in  my  hands. 

"  But,  Enrica,  she  has  plenty  of  flowers :  she 
lives  among  them,  and  each  morning  her  children 
gather  them  by  scores  to  make  garlands  of." 

Enrica  put  her  fingers  within  my  hand  to  take 
again  the  bouquet ;  and  for  a  moment  I  held  both 
fingers  and  flowers. 

The  flowers  slipped  out  first. 

I  had  a  friend  at  Rome  in  that  time,  who  after- 
ward died  between  Ancona  and  Corinth  :  we  were 
sitting  one  day  upon  a  block  of  tufa  in  the  middle 
of  the  Coliseum,  looking  up  at  the  shadows  which 
the  waving  shrubs  upon  the  southern  wall,  cast 
16* 


186  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

upon  the  ruined  arcades  within,  and  listening  to 
the  chirping  sparrows  that  lived  upon  the  wreck, 
— when  he  said  to  me  suddenly — "  Paul,  you  love 
the  Italian  girl." 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"  I  think  she  is  beginning  to  love  you,"  said  he, 
soberly. 

"  She  has  a  very  warm  heart,  I  believe,"  said  I. 

"  Aye,"  said  he. 

"  But  her  feelings  are  those  of  a  girl,"  contin- 
ued I. 

"  They  are  not,"  said  my  friend ;  and  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  my  knee,  and  left  off  drawing  dia- 
grams with  his  cane, — "  I  have  seen,  Paul,  more 
than  you  of  this  southern  nature.  The  Italian  girl 
of  fifteen  is  a  woman  ; — an  impassioned,  sensitive, 
tender  creature — yet  still  a  woman  ;  you  are  loving 
• — if  you  love — a  full-grown  heart ;  she  is  loving — 
if  she  loves — as  a  ripe  heart  should." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  that  either  is  wholly  true," 
said  I. 

"  Try  it,"  said  he,  setting  his  cane  down  firmly, 
and  looking  in  my  face. 

"  How  ? "  returned  I. 

"I  have  three  weeks  upon  my  hands,"  con- 
tinued he.  "  Go  with  me  into  the  Apennines ; 
leave  your  home  in  the  Corso,  and  see  if  you  can 
forget  in  the  air  of  the  mountains,  your  bright-eyed 
Roman  girl ! " 

I  was  pondering  for  an  answer,  when  lie  went 
\>n : — "  It  is  better  so :  love  as  you  might,  that 


THE  MORNING.  187 

southern  nature  with  all  its  passion,  is  not  the  ma- 
terial to  build  domestic  happiness  upon ;  nor  is 
your  northern  habit — whatever  you  may  think  at 
your  time  of  life,  the  one  to  cherish  always  those 
passionate  sympathies  which  are  bred  by  this  at- 
mosphere, and  their  scenes." 

One  moment  my  thought  ran  to  my  little  par- 
lor, and  to  that  fairy  figure,  and  to  that  sweet  angel 
face:  and  then,  like  lightning  it  traversed  oceans, 
and  fed  upon  the  old  ideal  of  home,  and  brought 
images  to  my  eye  of  lost — dead  ones,  who  seemed  to 
be  stirring  on  heavenly  wings,  in  that  soft  Roman 
atmosphere,  with  greeting,  and  with  beckoning. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulders,  when  I  told 
him  I  was  going  to  the  mountains,  and  wanted  a 
guide.  His  wife  said  it  would  be  cold  upon  the 
hills,  for  the  winter  was  not  ended.  Enrica  said  it 
would  be  warm  in  the  valleys,  for  the  spring  was 
coming.  The  old  man  drummed  with  his  fingers 
on  the  table,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  but 
said  nothing. 

My  landlady  said  I  could  not  ride.  Cesare  said 
it  would  be  hard  walking.  Enrica  asked  papa,  if 
there  would  be  any  danger  ?  And  again  the  old 
man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Again  I  asked  him, 
if  he  knew  a  man  who  would  serve  us  as  guide 
among  the  Apennines ;  and  finding  me  deter- 
mined, he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  he 
would  find  one  the  next  day. 

As  I  passed  out  at  evening,  on  my  way  to  the 


188  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Piazzo  near  the  Monte  Citorio,  where  stand  the  car- 
riages that  go  out  to  Tivoli,  Enrica  glided  up  to 

me,  and  whispered — "  aA,  mi  displace  tanto tanto, 

Signor  !  " 

THE    APENNINES. 

I  SHOOK  her  hand,  and  in  an  hour  afterward 
was  passing  with  my  friend,  by  the  Trajan  forum, 
toward  the  deep  shadow  of  San  Maggiore,  which 
lay  in  our  way  to  the  mountains.  At  sunset,  we 
were  wandering  over  the  ruin  of  Adrian's  villa, 
which  lies  upon  the  first  step  of  the  Apennines. 
Behind  us,  the  vesper  bells  of  Tivoli  were  sound- 
ing, and  their  echoes  floating  sweetly  under  the 
broken  arches ;  before  us,  stretching  all  the  way  to 
the  horizon,  lay  the  broad  Campagna  ;  while  in  the 
middle  of  its  great  waves,  turned  violet-colored,  by 
the  hues  of  twilight,  rose  the  grouped  towers  of 
the  Eternal  City ;  and  lording  it  among  them  all, 
like  a  giant,  stood  the  black  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Day  after  day  we  stretched  on  over  the  moun- 
tains, leaving  the  Campagna  far  behind  us.  Rocks 
and  stones,  huge  and  ragged,  lie  strewed  over  the  sur- 
face right  and  left ;  deep  yawning  valleys  lie  in  the 
shadows  of  mountains,  that  loom  up  thousands  of 
feet,  bearing  perhaps  upon  their  tops  old  castellated 
towns,  perched  like  birds'  nests.  But  mountain 
and  valley  are  blasted  and  scarrerl ;  the  forests  even, 
are  not  continuous,  but  struggle  for  a  livelihood ; 
as  if  the  brimstone  fire  that  consumed  Nineveh,  had 
withered  their  energies.  Sometimes,  our  eyes  rest 


THE  MORNING.  189 

on  a  great  white  scar  of  the  broken  calcareous 
rock,  on  which  the  moss  cannot  grow,  and  the  liz- 
ards dare  not  creep.  Then  we  see  a  cliff  beetling 
far  aloft,  with  the  shining  walls  of  some  monastery 
of  holy  men  glistening  at  its  base.  The  wayside 
brooks  do  not  seem  to  be  the  gentle  offspring  of 
bountiful  hills,  but  the  remnants  of  something 
greater,  whose  greatness  has  expired  ; — they  are  tur- 
bid rills,  rolling  in  the  bottom  of  yawning  chasms. 
Even  the  shrubs  have  a  look,  as  if  the  Volscian 
war-horse  had  trampled  them  down  to  death ;  and 
the  primroses  and  the  violets  by  the  mountain  path, 
alone  look  modestly  beautiful  amid  the  ruin. 

Sometimes,  we  loiter  in  a  valley,  above  wliich 
the  goats  are  browsing  on  the  cliffs,  and  listen  to 
the  sweet  pastoral  pipes  of  the  Apennines.  We  see 
the  shepherds  in  their  rough  skin  coats,  high  over 
our  heads.  Their  herds  are  feeding,  as  it  seems,  on 
ledges  of  a  hand's  breadth.  The  sweet  sound  floats 
and  lingers  in  the  soft  atmosphere,  without  a 
breath  of  wind  to  bear  it  away,  or  a  noise  to  dis- 
turb its  melody.  The  shadows  slant  more  and 
more  as  we  linger ;  and  the  kids  begin  to  group 
together.  And  as  we  wander  on,  through  the 
stunted  vineyards  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  the 
sweet  sound  flows  after  us,  like  a  river  of  song, — 
nor  leaves  us,  till  the  kids  have  vanished  in  the 
distance,  and  the  cliffs  themselves,  become  one  dark 
wall  of  shadow. 

At  night,  in  some  little  meagre  mountain  town, 
we  stroll  about  in  the  narrow  pass-ways,  or  wander 


190  BEVEKIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

under  the  heavy  arches  of  the  mountain  churches. 
Shuffling  old  women  grope  in  and  out ;  dim  lamps 
glimmer  faintly  at  the  side  altars,  shedding  horrid 
light  upon  painted  images  of  the  dying  Christ. 
Or  perhaps,  to  make  the  old  pile  more  solemn, 
there  stands  some  bier  in  the  middle,  with  a  figure 
or  two  kneeling  at  the  foot,  and  ragged  boys  move 
stealthily  under  the  shadows  of  the  columns.  Pi'es- 
ently  comes  a  young  priest  in  black  robes,  and 
lights  a  taper  at  the  foot,  and  another  at  the  head 
— for  there  is  a  dead  man  on  the  bier ;  and  the 
parched,  thin  features  look  awfully  under  the  yel- 
low light  of  the  tapers,  in  the  gloom  of  the  great 
building.  It  is  very,  very  damp  in  the  church, 
and  the  body  of  the  dead  man  seems  to  make  the 
air  heavy,  so  we  go  out  into  the  starlight  again. 

In  the  morning,  the  western  slopes  wear  broad 
shadows,  and  the  frosts  crumple,  on  the  herbage, 
to  our  tread  :  across  the  valley,  it  is  like  summer; 
and  the  birds — for  there  are  songsters  in  the  Apen- 
nines,— make  summer  music.  Their  notes  blend 
softly  with  the  faint  sounds  of  some  far  off  con- 
vent bell,  tolling  for  morning  mass,  and  strike  the 
frosted  and  shaded  mountain  side,  with  a  sweet 
echo.  As  we  toil  on,  and  the  shaded  hills  begin  to 
glow,  in  the  sunshine,  we  pass  a  train  of  mules, 
loaded  with  wine.  We  have  seen  them  an  hour  be- 
fore— little  black  dots  twining  along  the  white 
streak  of  foot-way  upon  the  mountain  above  us. 
We  lost  them  as  we  began  to  ascend,  xmtil  a  wild 
snatch  of  an  Apenniue  song  turned  our  eyes  up, 


THE  MORNING.  \§\ 

and  there,  straggling  through  the  brush,  they  ap- 
peared again  ;  a  foot  slip  would  have  brought  the. 
mules  and  wine  casks  rolling  upon  us.  We  keep 
still,  holding  by  the  brushwood,  to  let  them  pass. 
An  hour  more,  and  we  see  them  toiling  slowly, — . 
mule  and  muleteer, — big  dots,  and  little  dots, — far 
down  where  we  have  been  before.  The  sun  is  hot 
and  smoking  on  their,  in  the  bare  valleys  ;  the  sun 
is  hot  and  smoking  on  the  hill-side,  where  we  are 
toiling  over  the  broken  stones.  I  thought  of  little 
Enrica,  when  she  said the  spring  was  coming  1 

Time  and  again,  we  sit  down  together — my 
friend  and  I — upon  some  fragment  of  rock,  under 
the  broad-armed  chestnuts,  that  fiinge  the  lower 
skirts  of  the  mountains,  and  talk  through  the  hot- 
test of  the  noon,  of  the  warriors  of  Sylla,  and  of 
the  Sabine  women, — but  oftener — of  the  pretty 
peasantry,  and  of  the  sweet-faced  Roman  girl.  He 
too  tells  me  of  his  life  and  loves,  and  of  the  hopes 
that  lie  misty  and  grand  before  him : — little  did  we 
think  that  in  so  few  years,  his  hopes  would  be 
gone,  and  his  body  lying  low  in  the  Adriatic,  or 
tost  with  the  drift  upon  the  Dalmatian  shores ! 
Little  did  I  think,  that  here  under  the  ancestral 
wood, — still  a  wishful  and  blundering  mortal,  I 
should  be  gathering  up  the  shreds,  that  memory 
can  catch  of  our  Apennine  wandering,  and  be 
weaving  them  into  my  bachelor  dreams. 

Away  again  upon  the  quick  wing  of  thought,  I 
follow  our  steps,  as  after  weeks  of  wandering,  wo 
gained  once  more  a  height  that  overlooked  tha 


192  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

Campagna — and  saw  the  sun  setting  on  its  edge, 
throwing  into  relief  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and 
blazing  in  a  red  stripe  upon  the  waters  of  the 
Tiber. 

Below  us  was  Palestrina— the  Praeneste  of  the 
poets  and  philosophers  ; — the  dwelling  place  of — I 
know  not  how  many — Emperors.  We  went  strag- 
gling through  the  dirty  streets,  searching  for  some 
tidy-looking  osteria.  At  length,  we  found  an  old 
lady,  who  could  give  us  a  bed,  but  no  dinner.  My 
friend  dropped  in  a  chair  disheartened.  A  snub- 
looking  priest  came  out  to  condole  with  us. 

And  could  Palestrina, — fhefriyidum  Prcmeste  of 
Horace,  which  had  entertained  over  and  over,  the 
noblest  of  the  Colonna,  and  the  most  noble  Adrian 
— could  Palestrina  not  furnish  a  dinner  to  a  tired 
traveller  ? 

"  Si,  Signore,"  said  the  snub-looking  priest. 
" Si,  Siynorino"  said  the  neat  old  lady ;  and 
away  we  went  upon  a  new  search.  And  we  found 
bright  and  happy  faces  ; — especially  the  little  girl 
of  twelve  years,  who  came  close  by  me  as  I  ate,  and 
afterward  strung  a  garland  of  marigolds,  and  put 
it  on  my  head.  Then  there  was  a  bright-eyed  boy 
of  fourteen,  who  wrote  his  name,  and  those  of  the 
whole  family,  upon  a  fiy  leaf  of  my  book :  and  a 
pretty,  saucy-looking  girl  of  sixteen,  who  peeped 
a  long  time  from  behind  the  kitchen  door,  but  be- 
fore the  evening  was  gone,  she  was  in  the  chair 
beside  me,  and  had  written  her  name — Carlotta 
— upon  the  first  leaf  of  my  journal. 


THE  MORNING.  193 

When  I  woke,  the  sun  was  up.  From  my  bed 
I  could  see  over  the  town,  the  thin,  lazy  mists  ly- 
ing on  the  old  camp-ground  of  Pyrrhus ;  beyond  it, 
were  the  mountains,  which  hide  Frascati,  and 
Moute-Cavi.  There  was  old  Colonna  too,  that — 

Like  an  eagle's  nest,  Langs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine. 

As  the  mist  lifted,  and  the  sun  brightened  the 
plain,  I  could  see  the  road,  along  which  Sylla  came 
fuming  and  maddened  after  the  Mithridaten  war. 
I  could  see,  as  I  half  dreamed  and  half  slept,  the 
frightened  peasantry  whooping  to  their  long- 
horned  cattle,  as  they  drove  them  on  tumultuously 
up  through  the  gateways  of  the  town  ;  and  women 
with  babies  in  their  arms,  and  children  scowling 
with  fear  and  hate — all  trooping  fust  and  madly, 
to  escape  the  hand  of  the  Avenger ; — alas !  in- 
effectually, for  Sylla  murdered  them,  and  pulled 
down  the  walls  of  their  town — the  proud  Pales- 
trina ! 

I  had  a  queer  fancy  of  seeing  the  nobles  of 
Rome,  led  on  by  Stefano  Colonna,  grouping  along 
the  plain,  their  corslets  flashing  out  of  the  mists, — 
their  pennants  dashing  above  it, — coming  up  fast, 
and  still  as  the  wind,  to  make  the  Mural  Praeneste, 
their  strong-hold  against  the  Last  of  the  Tribunes. 
And  strangely  mingling  fiction  with  fact,  I  saw  the 
brother  of  Walter  de  Montreal,  with  his  noisy  and 
bristling  army,  crowd  over  the  Campagna,  and  put 
up  his  white  tent?,  and  hang  cut  his  showy  banners, 
on  the  grassy  knolls  that  lay  nearest  my  eye. 
17 


194  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

But  the  knolls  were  all  quiet ;  there  was 

not  so  much  as  a  strolling  contadino  on  them,  to 
whistle  a  mimic  fife-note.  A  little  boy  from  the 
inn  went  with  me  upon  the  hill,  to  look  out  upon 
the  town  and  the  wide  sea  of  land  below;  and 
whether  it  was  the  soft,  warm  April  sun,  or  the 
gray  ruins  below  me,  or  whether  the  wonderful 
silence  of  the  scene,  or  some  wild  gush  of  memory, 
I  do  not  know,  but  something  made  me  sad. 

"  Perche  cosi  penseroso  ? — why  so  sad  ! "  said  the 
quick-eyed  boy.  "  The  air  is  beautiful,  the  scene 
is  beautiful ;  Signore  is  young,  why  is  he  sad  ? " 

"  And  is  Giovanni  never  sad  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Quasi  mai, "  said  the  boy, "  and  if  I  could 
travel  as  Signore,  and  see  other  countries,  I  would 
be  always  gay. " 

"  May  you  be  always  that !  "  said  I. 

The  good  wish  touched  him ;  he  took  me  by 
the  arms,  and  said — "  Go  home  with  me,  Signore ; 
you  were  happy  at  the  inn  last  night ;  go  back, 
and  we  will  make  you  gay  again  !  " 

If  we  could  be  always  boys  ! 

I  thanked  him  in  a  way  that  saddened  him. 
We  passed  out  shortly  after  from  the  city  gates, 
and  strode  on  over  the  rolling  plain.  Once  or 
twice  we  turned  back  to  look  at  the  rocky  heights 
beneath  which  lay  the  ruined  town  of  Palestrina  ; 
— a  city  that  defied  Rome, — that  had  a  king  before 
a  ploughshare  had  touched  the  Capitoline,  or  the 
Janiculan  hill !  The  ivy  was  covering  up  richly 
the  Etruscan  foundations,  and  there  was  a  quiet 


THE  MORNING.  195 

over  the  whole  place.  The  smoke  was  rising 
straight  into  the  sky  from  the  chimney  tops ;  a 
peasant  or  two,  were  going  along  the  road  with 
donkeys ;  beside  this,  the  city  was,  to  all  appear- 
ance, a  dead  city.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  an 
old  monk,  whom  I  could  see  with  my  glass,  near 
the  little  chapel  above  the  town,  might  be  going  to 
say  mass  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  city. 

And  afterward,  when  we  came  near  to  Rome, 
and  passed  under  the  temple  tomb  of  Metella, — my 
friend  said — "  And  will  you  go  back  now  to  your 
home  ?  or  will  you  set  off  with  me  to-morrow  for 
Ancona  ?  " 

"  At  least,  I  must  say  adieu,"  returned  I. 

"  God  speed  you ! "  said  he,  and  we  parted 
upon  the  Piazzi  di  Venezia, — he  for  his  last  mass 
at  St.  Peter's,  and  I  for  the  tall  house  upon  the 
Corso. 

ENRICA. 

I  HEAR  her  glancing  feet,  the  moment  I  have 
tinkled  the  bell ; — and  there  she  is,  with  her  brown 
hair  gathered  into  braids,  and  her  eyes  full  of  joy, 
and  greeting.  And  as  I  walk  with  the  mother  to 
the  window  to  look  at  some  pageant  that  is  pass- 
ing,— she  steals  up  behind,  and  passes  her  arm 
around  me,  with  a  quick  electric  motion,  and  a 
gentle  pressure  of  welcome — that  tells  more  than  a 
thousand  words. 

It  is  a  pageant  of  death  that  is  passing  below. 
Far  down  the  street,  we  see  heads  thrust  out  of  the 


196  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

windows,  and  standing  in  bold  relief  against  the 
red  torch-light  of  the  moving  train.  Below,  dim 
figures  are  gathering  on  the  narrow  side  ways  to 
look  at  the  solemn  spectacle.  A  hoarse  chant  rises 
louder,  and  loader ;  and  half  dies  in  the  night  air, 
and  breaks  out  again  with  new,  and  deep  bitterness. 

Now,  the  first  torch-light  under  us  shines  plainly 
on  faces  in  the  windows,  and  on  the  kneeling  wo- 
men in  the  street.  First,  come  old  retainers  of  the 
dead  one,  bearing  long  blazing  flambeaux.  Then 
comes  a  company  of  priests,  two  by  two,  bare- 
headed, and  every  second  one  with  a  lighted  torch, 
and  all  are  chanting. 

Next,  is  a  brotherhood  of  friars  in  brown 
cloaks,  with  sandalled  feet ; — and  the  red-light 
streams  full  upon  their  grizzled  heads.  They  add 
their  heavy  guttural  voices  to  the  chant,  and  pass 
slowly  on. 

Then  comes  a  company  of  priests,  in  white 
muslin  capes,  and  black  robes,  and  black  caps, — 
bearing  books  in  their  hands,  wide  open,  and  lit 
up  plainly  by  the  torches  of  churchly  servitors,  who 
march  beside  them ;  and  from  the  books,  the 
priests  chant  loud  and  solemnly.  Now  the  music 
is  loudest ;  and  the  friars  take  up  the  dismal  notes 
from  the  white-capped  priests,  and  the  priests 
before  catch  them  from  the  brown-robed  friars,  and 
mournfully  the  sound  rises  up  between  the  tall 
buildings, — into  the  blue  night-sky  that  lies  be- 
tween Heaven  and  Rome. 

— "  Vede — vede!  " — says  Cesare  ;  and  in  a  blaze 


THE  MORNING.  197 

of  the  red-torch  fire,  comes  the  bier,  borne  on  the 
necks  of  stout  friars  ;  and  on  the  bier,  is  the  body 
of  a  dead  man,  habited  like  a  priest.  Heavy 
plumes  of  black  wave  at  each  corner 

— "  Hist !  " — says  my  landlady. 

The  body  is  just  under  us.  Enrica  crosses  her- 
self; her  smile  is  for  the  moment  gone.  Cesare's 
boy-face  is  grown  suddenly  earnest.  We  could  see 
the  pale  youthful  features  of  the  dead  man.  The 
glaring  flambeaux,  sent  their  flaunting  streams  of 
unearthly  light  over  the  wan  visage  of  the  sleeper. 
A  thousand  eyes  were  looking  on  him ;  but  his 
face  careless  of  them  all,  was  turned  up,  straight 
toward  the  stars. 

Still  the  chant  rises  ;  and  companies  of  priests 
follow  the  bier,  like  those  who  had  gone  before. 
Friars,  in  brown  cloaks,  and  prelates  and  Carmelites 
come  after — all  with  torches.  Two  by  two — their 
voices  growing  hoarse — they  tramp,  and  chant. 

For  awhile  the  voices  cease,  and  you  can  hear 
the  rustling  of  their  robes,  and  their  foot-falls,  as 
if  your  ear  was  to  the  earth.  Then  the  chant  rises 
again,  as  they  glide  on  in  a  wavy,  shining  line,  and 
rolls  back  over  the  death-train,  like  the  howling  of 
a  wind  in  winter. 

As  they  pass,  the  faces  vanish  from  the  win- 
dows. The  kneeling  women  upon  the  pavement, 
rise  up,  mindful  of  the  paroxysm  of  Life  once  more. 
The  groups  in  the  doorways  scatter.  But  their 
low  voices  do  not  drown  the  voices  of  the  host  of 
mourners,  and  their  ghost-like  music. 


198  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

I  look  long  upon  the  blazing  bier,  trailing 
under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Roman  palaces,  and 
at  the  stream  of  torches,  winding  like  a  glittering, 
scaled  serpent. It  is  a  priest — say  I  to  my  land- 
lady, as  she  closes  the  window. 

"  No,  signer, — a  young  man  never  married,  and 
so  by  virtue  of  his  condition,  they  put  on  him  the 
priest-robes." 

"  So  I " — says  the  pretty  Enrica — "  if  I  should 
die,  would  be  robed  in  white,  as  you  saw  me  on  a 
carnival  night,  and  be  followed  by  nuns  for  sis- 
ters." 

"  A  long  way  off  may  it  be,  Enrica  !  " 

She  took  my  hand  in  hers,  and  pressed  it.  An 
Italian  girl  does  not  fear  to  talk  of  death ;  and  we 
were  talking  of  it  still,  as  we  walked  back  to  my 
little  parlor — my  hand  all  the  time  in  hers — and 
sat  down  by  the  blaze  of  my  fire. 

It  was  holy  week — never  had  Enrica  looked 
more  sweetly  than  in  that  black  dress, — under  that 
long,  dark  veil  of  the  days  of  Lent.  Upon  the 
broad  pavement  of  St.  Peter's, — where  the  people 
flocking  by  thousands,  made  only  side  groups 
about  the  altars  of  the  vast  temple — I  have 
watched  her  kneeling,  beside  her  mother, — her 
eyes  bent  down,  her  lips  moving  earnestly,  and  her 
whole  firjure  tremulous  with  deep  emotion.  Wan- 
dering around  among  the  halberdiers  of  the  Pope, 
and  the  court  coats  of  Austria,  and  the  bare-footed 
pilgrims  with  sandals,  shell  and  staff,  I  would  sidle 
back  again,  to  look  upon  that  kneeling  figure  j 


THE  MORNING.      .  199 

and  leaning  against  the  huge  columns  of  the 

church,  would  dream even  as  I  am  dreaming 

now. 

At  night-fall,  I  urge  my  way  into  the  Sistine 
Chapel :  Eurica  is  beside  me, — looking  with  me 
upon  the  gaunt  figures  of  the  Judgment  of  Angelo. 
They  are  chanting  the  Miserere.  The  twelve  can- 
dle-sticks by  the  altar  are  put  out  one  by  one,  as 
the  service  continues.  The  sun  has  gone  down, 
and  only  the  red  glow  of  twilight  steals  through 
the  dusky  windows.  There  is  a  pause,  and  a  brief 
reading  from  a  red-cloaked  cardinal,  and  all  kneel 
down.  She  kneels  beside  me :  and  the  sweet, 
mournful  flow  of  the  Miserere  begins  again, — 
growing  in  force,  and  depth,  till  the  whole  chapel 
rings,  and  the  balcony  of  the  choir  trembles :  then, 
it  subsides  again  into  the  low  soft  wail  of  a  single 
voice — so  prolonged — so  tremulous,  and  so  real, 

that  the  heart  aches,  and  the  tears  start for 

Christ  is  dead ! 

Lingering  yet,  the  wail  dies  not  wholly, 

but  just  as  it  seemed  expiring,  it  is  caught  up  by 
another  and  stronger  voice  that  carries  it  on, 
plaintive  as  ever ; — nor  does  it  stop  with  this — for 
just  as  you  looked  for  silence,  three  voices  more 
begin  the  lament — sweet,  touching,  mournful 
voices, — and  bear  it  up  to  a  full  cry,  when  the 
whole  choir  catch  its  burden,  and  make  the  lament 
change  into  the  wailing  of  a  multitude — wild, 
shrill,  hoarse — with  swift  chants  intervening,  as 
if  agony  had  given  force  to  anguish.  Then, 


200  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

sweetly,  slowly,  voice  by  voice,  note  by  note,  the 
waitings  sink  into  tlae  low,  tender,  moan  of  a 
single  singer — faltering,  tremulous,  as  if  tears 
checked  the  utterance ;  and  swelling  out,  as  if 
despair  sustained  it. 

It  was  dark  in  the  chapel,  when  we  went  out  ; 

voices  were  low.    Enrica  said  notliing 1  could 

say  nothing. 

I  was  to  leave  Rome  after  Easter ;  I  did  not 
love  to  speak  of  it — nor  to  think  of  it.  Rome — 
that  old  city,  with  all  its  misery,  and  its  fallen 
state,  and  its  broken  palaces  of  the  Empire — grows 
upon  one's  heart.  The  fringing  shrubs  of  the  coli- 
seum, flaunting  their  blossoms  at  the  tall  beggar- 
men  in  cloaks,  who  grub  below, — the  sun  glimmer- 
ing over  the  mossy  pile  of  the  House  of  Nero, — the 
sweet  sunsets  from  the  Pincian,  that  make  the 
broad  pine-tops  of  the  Janicu-lan,  stand  sharp  and 
dark  against  a  sky  of  gold,  cannot  easily  be  left 
behind.  And  Enrica  with  her  silver  brown  hair, 
and  the  silken  fillet  that  bound  it, — and  her  deep 
hazel  eyes, — and  her  white,  delicate  fingers, — and 

the  blue  veins  chasing  over  her  fair  temples ah, 

Easter  is  too  near  ! 

But  it  comes  ;  and  passes  with  the  glory  of  St. 
Peter's — lighted  from  top  to  bottom.  With  Enrica 
— I  saw  it  from  the  Ripetta,  as  it  loomed  up  in  the 
distance,  like  a  city  on  fire. 

The  next  day,  I  bring  home  my  last  bunch  of 
flowers,  and  with  it  a  little  richly-chased  Roman 
ring.  No  fire  blazes  on  the  hearth — but  they  are 


THE  MORN1SG.  201 

all  there.  Warm  days  have  come,  and  the  summer 
air,  even  now,  hangs  heavy  with  fever,  in  the  hol- 
lows of  the  plain. 

I  heard  them  stirring  early  on  the  morning  on 
which  I  was  to  go  away.  I  do  not  think  I  slept 
very  well  myself — nor  very  late.  Never  did  Enrica 
look  more  beautiful — never.  All  her  Carnival 
robes,  and  the  sad  drapery  of  the  FRIDAY  OF  CRU- 
CIFIXION could  not  so  adorn  her  beauty  as  that  neat 
morning  dress,  and  that  simple  rosebud  she  wore 
upon  her  bosom.  She  gave  it  to  me — the  last — • 
with  a  trembling  hand.  I  did  not,  for  I  could  not, 
thank  her.  She  knew  it ;  and  her  eyes  were  full. 

The  old  man  kissed  my  cheek — it  was  the  Ro- 
man custom,  but  the  custom  did  not  extend  to  the 
Roman  girls;  at  least  not  often.  As  I  passed 
down  the  Corso,  I  looked  back  at  the  balcony, 
where  she  stood  in  the  time  of  Carnival,  in  the 
brown  Sombrero,  with  the  white  plume.  I  knew 
she  would  be  there  now  ;  and  there  she  was.  My 
eyes  dwelt  upon  the  vision,  very  loth  to  leave  it ; 
and  after  my  eyes  had  lost  it,  my  heart  clung  to  it, 
— there,  where  my  memory  clings  now. 

At  noon,  the  carriage  stopped  upon  the  hills, 
toward  Soracte,  that  overlooked  Rome.  There  was 
a  stunted  pine  tree  grew  a  little  way  from  the  road, 
and  I  sat  down  under  it, — for  I  wished  no  dinner — 
and  I  looked  back  with  strange  tumult  of  feeling, 
upon  the  sleeping  city,  with  the  gray,  bJllowy  sea 
of  the  Campagna,  lying  around  it. 

I  seemed  to  see  Enrica — the  Roman  girl,  in  that 


202  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

morning  dress,  with  her  brown  hair  in  its  silken 
fillet ; — but  the  rose-bud  that  was  in  her  bosom, 
was  now  in  mine.  Her  silvery  voice  too,  seemed 
to  float  past  me,  bearing  snatches  of  Roman  songs  ; 
— but  the  songs  were  sad  and  broken. 

After  all,  this  is  sad  vanity  ! — thought  I : 

and  yet  if  I  had  espied  then  some  returning  car- 
riage going  down  toward  Rome,  I  will  not  say — but 
that  I  should  have  hailed  it,  and  taken  a  place, — 
and  gone  back,  and  to  this  day,  perhaps — have 
lived  at  Rome. 

But  the  vetturino  called  me ;  the  coach  was 
ready ; — I  gave  one  more  look  toward  the  dome 
that  guarded  the  sleeping  city  :  and  then,  we  gal- 
loped down  the  mountain,  on  the  road  that  lay 
toward  Perugia,  and  Lake  Thrasimene. 

Sweet  Enrica  !  art  thou  living  yet  ?  Or 

hast  thou  passed  away  to  that  Silent  Land,  where 
the  good  sleep,  and  the  beautiful  ? 


The  visions  of  the  Past  fade.  The  morning 
breeze  has  died  upon  the  meadow ;  the  Bob-o'-Lin- 
coln  sits  swaying  on  the  willow  tufts — singing  no 
longer.  The  trees  lean  to  the  brook;  but  the 
shadows  fall  straight  and  dense  upon  the  silver 
stream. 

NOON  has  broken  into  the  middle  sky;  and 
MORNING  is  gone. 


n. 

Noon. 

T  I  ^H±]  Noon  is  short ;  the  sun  never  loiters  on  the 
_I_  meridian,  nor  does  the  shadow  on  the  old  dial 
by  the  garden,  stay  long  at  XII.  The  Present,  like 
the  noon,  is  only  a  point ;  and  a  point  so  fine,  that 
it  is  not  measurable  by  the  grossness  of  action. 
Thought  alone  is  delicate  enough  to  tell  the 
breadth  of  the  Present. 

The  Past  belongs  to  God  :  the  .Present  only  is 
ours.  And  short  as  it  is,  there  is  more  in  it,  and 
of  it,  than  we  can  well  manage.  That  man  who 
can  grapple  it,  and  measure  it,  and  fill  it  with  his 
purpose,  is  doing  a  man's  work :  none  can  do  more : 
but  there  are  thousands  who  do  less. 

Short  as  it  is,  the  Present  is  great  and  strong ; 
— as  much  stronger  than  the  Past,  as  fire  than 
ashes,  or  as  Death  than  the  grave.  The  noon  sun 
\vill  quicken  vegetable  life,  that  in  the  morning 
was  dead.  It  is  hot  and  scorching  :  I  feel  it  now 


204  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

upon  my  head :  but  it  docs  not  scorch  and  heal 
like  the  bewildering  Present.  There  are  no  oak 
leaves  to  interrupt  the  rays  of  the  burning  NOW. 
Its  shadows  do  not  fall  east  or  west ; — like  the 
noon,  the  shade  it  makes,  falls  straight  from  sky  to 
earth — straight  from  Heaven  to  Hell ! 

Memory  presides  over  the  Past;  Action  pre- 
sides over  the  Present.  The  first  lives  in  a  rich 
temple  hung  with  glorious  trophies,  and  lined  with 
tombs :  the  other  has  no  shrine  but  Duty,  and  it 
walks  the  earth  like  a  spirit  \ 

1  called  my  dog  to  me,  and  we  shared 

together  the  meal  that  I  had  brought  away  at  sun- 
rise from  the  mansion  under  the  elms ;  and  now, 
Carlo  is  gnawing  at  the  bone  that  I  have  thrown 
to  him,  and  I  stroll  dreamily  in  the  quiet  noon 
atmosphere,  upon  that  grassy  knoll,  under  the 
oaks. 

Noon  in  the  country  is  very  still :  the  birds  do 
not  sing :  the  workmen  are  not  in  the  field  :  the 
sheep  lay  their  noses  to  the  ground ;  and  the  herds 
stand  in  pools,  under  shady  trees,  lashing  their 
sides, — but  otherwise  motionless.  The  mills  upon 
the  brook,  far  above,  have  ceased  for  an  hour  their 
labor ;  and  the  stream  softens  its  rustle,  and  sinks 
away  from  the  sedgy  banks.  The  heat  plays  upon 
the  meadow  in  noiseless  waves,  and  the  beech 
leaves  do  not  stir. 

Thought,  I  said,  was  the  only  measure  of  the 
Present :  and  the  stillness  of  noon  breeds  thought : 
and  my  thought  brings  up  the  old  companions, 


NOON.  205 

abd  stations  them  in  the  domain  of  NOW.  Thought 
ranges  over  the  world,  and  brings  up  hopes,  and 
fears,  and  resolves,  to  measure  the  burning  NOW. 
Joy,  and  grief,  and  purpose,  blending  in  my 
thought,  give  breadth  to  the  Present. 

—Where — thought  I — is  little  Isabel  now  ? 
Where  is  Lilly — where  is  Ben  ?  Where  is  Leslie, 
— where  is  my  old  teacher  ?  Where  is  my  chum, 
who  played  such  rare  tricks — where  is  the  black- 
eyed  Jane  ? — Where  is  that  sweet-faced  girl  whom 
I  parted  with  upon  that  terrace,  looking  down 
upon  the  old  spire  of  Modbury  church  ?  Where 
are  my  hopes — where  my  purposes — where  my  sor- 
rows? 

I  care  not  who  you  are — but  if  you  bring  such 
thought  to  measure  the  Present,  the  present  will 
seem  broad ;  and  it  will  be  sultry  as  noon — and 
make  a  fever  of  Now. 


EARLY    FRIENDS. 

WHERE  are  they  ? 

I  cannot  sit  now,  as  once,  upon  the  edge  of  the 
brook,  hour  after  hour,  flinging  off  my  line  and 
hook  to  the  nibbling  roach,  and  reckon  it  great 
sport.  There  is  no  girl  with  auburn  ringlets  to  sit 
beside  me,  and  to  play  upon  the  bank.  The  hours 
are  shorter  than  they  were  then ;  and  the  little  joys 
that  furnished  boyhood  till  the  heart  was  full,  can 
fill  it  no  longer.  Poor  Tray  is  dead,  long  ago ;  and 
he  cannot  swim  into  the  pools  for  the  floating 
18 


206  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

sticks ;  nor  can  I  sport  with  him  hour  after  hour, 
and  think  it  happiness.  The  mound  that  covers 
his  grave  is  sunken  ;  and  the  trees  that  shaded  it, 
are  broken  and  mossy. 

Little  Lilly  is  gro\vn  into  a  woman,  and  is  mar- 
ried ;  and  she  has  another  little  Lilly,  with  flaxen 
hair,  she  says, — looking  as  she  used  to  look.  I  dare 
say  the  child  is  pretty ;  but  it  is  not  my  Lilly. 
She  has  a  little  boy  too,  that  she  calls  Paul ; — a 
chubby  rogue — she  writes, — and  as  mischievous  as 
ever  I  was.  God  bless  the  boy  ! 

Ben, — who  would  have  liked  to  ride  in  the 
coach  that  carried  me  away  to  school — has  had  a 
great  many  rides  since  then — rough  rides,  and 
hard  ones,  over  the  road  of  life.  He  does  not  rake 
up  the  fallen  leaves  for  bonfires,  as  he  did  once ; 
he  is  grown  a  man,  and  is  fighting  his  way  some- 
where in  our  western  world,  to  the  short-lived 
honors  of  time.  He  was  married  not  long  ago ; 
his  wife  I  remembered  as  one  of  my  playmates  at 
my  first  school  :  she  was  beautiful,  but  fragile  as  a 
leaf.  She  died  within  a  year  of  their  marriage. 
Ben  was  but  four  years  my  senior  ;  but  this  grief 
has  made  him  ten  years  older.  He  does  not  say  it ; 
but  his  eye  and  his  figure  tell  it. 

The  nurse  who  put  the  purse  in  my  hand  that 
dismal  morning,  is  grown  a  feeble  old  woman. 
She  was  over  fifty  then  ;  she  may  well  be  seventy 
now.  She  did  not  know  my  voice  when  I  went 
to  see  her  the  other  day,  nor  did  she  know  my 
face  at  all.  She  repeated  the  name  when  I  told  it 


NOON.  207 

to  her — Paul,  Paul, — she  did  not  remember  any 
Paul,  except  a  little  boy,  a  long  while  ago. 

— "  To  whom  you  gave  a  purse  when  he  went 
away,  and  told  him  to  say  nothing  to  Lilly  or  to 
Ben  ? " 

— "Yes,  that  Paul" — says  the  old  woman 
exultingly — "  do  you  know  him  ?  " 

And  when  I  told  her — "  she  would  not  have 
believed  it !  "  But  she  did  ;  and  took  hold  of  my 
hand  again  (for  she  was  blind)  ;  and  then  smoothed 
down  the  plaits  of  her  apron,  and  jogged  her  cap 
strings,  to  look  tidy  in  the  presence  of  '  the  gentle- 
man.' And  she  told  me  long  stories  about  the  old 
house,  and  how  other  people  came  in  afterward; 
and  she  called  me  '  sir '  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
'  Paul.'  But  I  asked  her  to  say  only  Paul ;  she 
seemed  glad  for  this,  and  talked  easier ;  and  went 
on  to  tell  of  my  old  playmates,  and  how  we  used 
to  ride  the  pony — poor  Jacko  ! — and  how  we 
gathered  nuts — such  heaping  piles ;  and  how  we 
used  to  play  at  fox  and  geese  through  the  long 
winter  evenings ;  and  how  my  poor  mother  would 

smile but  here  I  asked  her  to   stop.     She 

could  not  have  gone  on  much  longer,  for  I  believe 
she  loved  our  house  and  people,  better  than  she 
loved  her  own. 

As  for  my  uncle,  the  cold,  silent  man,  who  lived 
with  his  books  in  the  house  upon  the  hill,  and  who 
used  to  frighten  me  sometimes  with  his  look,  he 
grew  very  feeble  after  I  had  left,  and  almost  crazed. 
The  country  people  said  that  he  was  mad ;  and 


208  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Isabel  "with  her  sweet  heart  clung  to  him,  and 
would  lead  him  out  when  his  step  tottered,  to  the 
seat  in  the  garden,  and  read  to  him  out  of  the 
books  he  loved  to  hear.  And  sometimes  they  told 
rue,  she  would  read  to  him  some  letters  that  I  had 
written  to  Lilly  or  to  Ben,  and  ask  him  if  he 
remembered  Paul,  who  saved  her  from  drowning 
under  the  tree  in  the  meadow  ?  But  he  could  only 
shake  his  head,  and  mutter  something  about  how 
old  and  feeble  he  had  grown. 

They  -wrote  me  afterward  that  he  died ;  and 
was  buried  in  a  far-away  place,  where  his  wife 
once  lived,  and  where  he  now  sleeps  beside  her. 
Isabel  was  sick  with  grief,  and  came  to  live  for  a 
time  with  Lilly,  but  when  they  wrote  me  last,  she 
had  gone  back  to  her  old  home — where  Tray  was 
buried — where  we  had  played  together  so  often, 
through  the  long  days  of  summer. 

I  was  glad  I  should  find  her  there,  when  I  came 
back.  Lilly  and  Ben  were  both  living  nearer  to 
the  city,  when  I  landed  from  my  long  journey  over 
the  seas  ;  but  still  I  went  to  find  Isabel  first.  Per- 
haps I  had  heard  so  much  oftener  from  the  others, 
that  I  felt  less  eager  to  see  them ;  or  perhaps  I 
wanted  to  save  my  best  visits  to  the  last ;  or  per- 
haps (I  did  think  it)  perhaps  I  loved  Isabel,  better 
than  them  all. 

So  I  went  into  the  country,  thinking  all  the 
way,  how  she  must  have  changed  since  I  left.  She 
must  be  now  nineteen  or  twenty ;  and  then  her 
grief  must  have  saddened  her  face  somewhat ;  but 


NOON.  209 

I  thought  I  should  like  her  all  the  better  for  that. 
Then  perhaps  she  would  not  laugh,  and  tease  me, 
but  would  be  quieter,  and  wear  a  sweet  snu']e — so 
calm,  and  beautiful,  I  thought.  Iler  figure  too 
must  have  grown  more  elegant,  and  she  would 
have  more  dignity  in  her  air. 

I  shuddered  a  little  at  this;  for  I  thought,— she 
will  hardly  think  so  much  of  me  then ;  perhaps 
she  will  have  seen  those  whom  she  likes  a  great 
deal  better.  Perhaps  she  will  not  like  me  at  all ; 
yet  I  knew  very  well  that  I  should  like  her. 

I  had  gone  up  almost  to  the  house ;  I  had 
passed  the  stream  where  we  fished  on  that  day, 
many  years  before ;  and  I  thought  that  now  since 
she  was  grown  to  womanhood,  I  should  never  sit 
with  her  there  again,  and  surely  never  drag  her  as 
I  did  out  of  the  water,  and  never  chafe  her  little 
hands,  and  never  perhaps  kiss  her,  as  I  did,  when 
she  sat  upon  my  mother's  lap — oh,  no — no — no  ! 

I  saw  where  we  buried  Tray,  but  the  old  slab 
was  gone ;  there  was  no  ribbon  there  now.  I 
thought  that  at  least,  Isabel  would  have  replaced 
the  slab ; — but  it  was  a  wrong  thought.  I  trembled 
When  I  went  up  to  the  door — for  it  flashed  upon 
me,  that  perhaps, — Isabel  was  married.  I  could 
not  tell  why  she  should  not ;  but  I  knew  it  would 
make  me  uncomfortable,  to  hear  that  she  had. 

There  was  a  tall  woman  who  opened  the  door ; 

she  did  not  know  me  ;  but  I  recognized  her  as  one 

of  the  old  servants.     I  asked  after  the  housekeeper 

first,  thinking  I  would  surprise  Isabel.    My  heart 

18* 


210  SE  VEEIE8  OF  A  BA  CHEL  OR. 

fluttered  somewhat,  thinking  that  she  might  step  in 
suddenly  herself — or  perhaps  that  she  might  have 
seen  me  coming  up  the  hill.  But  even  then,  I 
thought,  she  would  hardly  know  me. 

Presently  the  housekeeper  came  in,  looking  very 
grave ;  she  asked  if  the  gentleman  wished  to  see 
her? 

The  gentleman  did  wish  it,  and  she  sat  down 
on  one  side  of  the  fire ; — for  it  was  autumn,  and  the 
leaves  were  falling,  and  the  November  winds  were 
very  chilly. 

— Shall  I  tell  her — thought  I — who  I  am,  or 
ask  at  once  for  Isabel  ?  I  tried  to  ask ;  but  it  was 
hard  for  me  to  call  her  name ;  it  was  very  strange, 
but  I  could  not  pronounce  it  at  all. 

"  Who,  sir  ?  " — said  the  housekeeper,  in  a  tone 
so  earnest,  that  I  rose  at  once,  and  crossed  over,  and 
took  her  hand  : — "  You  know  me,"  said  I, — "  you 
surely  remember  Paul  ?  " 

She  started  with  surprise,  but  recovered  herself 
and  resumed  the  same  grave  manner.  I  thought  I 
had  committed  some  mistake,  or  been  in  some  way 
cause  of  offence.  I  called  her — Madame,  and  asked 
for— Isabel  ? 

She  turned  pale,  terribly  pale — "  Bella  ?  "  said 
she. 

"  Yes,  Bella." 

"  Sir— Bella  is  dead  !  " 

I  dropped  into  my  chair.  I  said  nothing.  The 
housekeeper — bless  her  kind  heart ! — slipped  noise- 
lessly out.  My  hands  were  over  my  eyes.  The 


NOON.  211 

winds  were  sighing  outside,  and  the  clock  ticking 
mournfully  within. 

I  did  not  sob,  nor  weep,  nor  utter  any  cry. 

The  clock  ticked  mournfully,  and  the  winds 
were  sighing ;  but  I  did  not  hear  them  any  longer ; 
there  was  a  tempest  raging  within  me,  that  would 
have  drowned  the  voice  of  thunder. 

It  broke  at  length  in  a  long,  deep  sigh, — "  oh 
God  !  " — said  I.  It  may  have  been  a  prayer ; — it 
was  not  an  imprecation. 

Bella — sweet  Bella  was  dead  1  It  seemed  as  if 
with  her,  half  the  world  were  dead — every  bright 
face  darkened — every  sunshine  blotted  out, — every 
flower  withered, — every  hope  extinguished ! 

I  walked  out  into  the  air,  and  stood  under  the 
trees  where  we  had  played  together  with  poor  Tray 
— where  Tray  lay  buried.  But  it  was  not  Tray  I 
thought  of,  as  I  stood  there,  with  the  cold  wind 
playing  through  my  hair,  and  my  eyes  filling  with 
tears.  How  could  she  die  ?  "Why  was  she  gone  ? 
Was  it  really  true  ?  Was  Isabel  indeed  dead — in 
her  coffin — buried  ?  Then  why  should  anybody 
live  ?  What  was  there  to  live  for,  now  that  Bella 
was  gone  ? 

Ah,  what  a  gap  in  the  world,  is  made  by  the 
death  of  those  we  love !  It  is  no  longer  whole,  but 
a  poor  half-world,  that  swings  uneasy  on  its  axis, 
and  makes  you  dizzy  -with  the  clatter  of  its  wreck  ! 
The  housekeeper  told  me  all— little  by  little, 
as  I  found  calmness  to  listen.  She  had  been  dead 
a  month ;  Lilly  was  with  her  through  it  all ;  she 


212  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

died  sweetly,  without  pain,  and  without  fear, — 
what  can  angels  fear  ?  She  had  spoken  often  of 
'Cousin  Paul;'  she  had  left  a  little  pacquet  for 
him,  but  it  was  not  there ;  she  had  given  it  into 
Lilly's  keeping. 

Her  grave,  the  housekeeper  told  me,  was  only  a 
little  way  off  from  her  home — beside  the  grave  of  a 
brother  who  died  long  years  before.  I  went  there 
that  evening.  The  mound  was  high  and  fresh. 
The  sods  had  not  closed  together,  and  the  dry 
leaves  caught  in  the  crevices,  and  gave  a  ragged 
and  a  terrible  look  to  the  grave.  The  next  day,  I 
laid  them  all  smooth — as  we  had  once  laid  them 
on  the  grave  of  Tray ; — I  clipped  the  long  grass, 
and  set  a  tuft  of  blue  violets  at  the  foot,  and 
watered  it  all  with — tears.  The  homestead,  the 
trees,  the  fields,  the  meadows — in  the  windy 
November,  looked  dismally.  I  could  not  like  them 
again ; — I  liked  nothing,  but  the  little  mound,  that 
I  had  dressed  over  Bella's  grave.  There  she  sleeps 
now, — the  sleep  of  Death  1 


SCHOOL    REVISITED. 

THE  old  school  is  there  still, — with  the  high 
cupola  upon  it,  and  the  long  galleries,  with  the 
sleeping  rooms  opening  out  on  either  side,  and  the 
corner  one,  where  I  slept.  But  the  boys  are  not 
there,  nor  the  old  teachers.  They  have  ploughed 
up  the  play-ground  to  plant  corn,  and  the  apple 


NOON.  213 

tree  with  the  low  limb,  that  made  our  gymnasium, 
is  cut  down. 

I  was  there  only  a  little  time  ago.  It  was  on  a 
Sunday.  One  of  the  old  houses  of  the  village  had 
been  fashioned  into  a  tavern,  and  it  was  there  I 
stopped.  But  I  strolled  by  the  old  one,  and  looked 
into  the  bar  room,  where  I  used  to  gaze  with  won- 
der upon  the  enormous  pictures  of  wild  animals, 
which  heralded  some  coming  menagerie.  There 
was  just  such  a  picture  hanging  still,  and  two  or 
three  advertisements  of  sheriffs,  and  a  little  bill  of 
a  '  horse  stolen,'  and — as  I  thought — the  same 
brown  pitcher  on  the  edge  of  the  Bar.  I  was  sure 
it  was  the  same  great  wood  box  that  stood  by  the 
fire  place,  and  the  same  whip,  and  great  coat  hung 
in  the  corner. 

I  was  not  in  so  gay  costume,  as  I  once  thought 
I  would  be  wearing,  when  a  man ;  I  had  nothing 
better  than  a  rusty  shooting  jacket ;  but  even  with 
this.'I  was  determined  to  have  a  look  about  the 
church,  and  see  if  I  could  trace  any  of  the  faces  of 
the  old  times.  They  had  sadly  altered  the  build- 
ing ;  they  had  cut  out  its  long  galleries,  and  its  old 
fashioned  square  pews,  and  filled  it  with  narrow 
boxes,  as  they  do  in  the  city.  The  pulpit  was  not 
so  high,  or  grand  ;  and  it  was  covered  over  with 
the  work  of  the  cabinet-makers. 

I  missed  too  the  old  preacher,  whom  we  all 
feared  so  much  ;  and  in  place  of  him,  was  a  jaunty 
looking  man,  whom  I  thought  I  would  not  be  at 
all  afraid  to  speak  to,  or  if  need  be,  to  slap  on  the 


214  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

shoulder.  And  when  I  did  meet  him  after  church, 
I  looked  him  in  the  eye  as  boldly  as  a  lion — what 
a  change  was  that,  from  the  school  days  ! 

Here  and  there,  I  could  detect  about  the  church, 
some  old  farmer,  by  the  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  of 
by  a  particular  twist  in  his  nose  ;  and  one  or  two 
young  fellows,  who  used  to  storm  into  the  gallery 
in  my  school  days,  in  very  gay  jackets,  dressed  off 
with  ribbons, — which  we  thought  was  astonishing 
heroism,  and  admired  accordingly, — were  now 
settled  away  into  fathers  of  families ;  and  looked 
as  demure,  and  peaceable,  at  the  head  of  their 
pews,  with  a  white-headed  boy  or  two  between 
them,  and  their  wives,  as  if  they  had  been  married 
all  their  days. 

There  was  a  stout  man  too,  with  a  slight  limp 
in  his  gait,  who  used  to  work  on  harnesses,  and 
strap  our  skates,  and  who  I  always  thought  would 
have  made  a  capital  Vulcan, — he  stalked  up  the 
aisle  past  me,  as  if  I  had  my  skates  strapped  at  his 
shop  only  yesterday. 

The  bald-pated  shoemaker,  who  never  kept  his 
word,  and  who  worked  in  the  brick  shop,  and  who 
had  a  son  called  Theodore, — which  we  all  thought 
a  very  pretty  name  for  a  shoemaker's  son — I  could 
not  find.  I  feared  he  might  be  dead.  I  hoped,  if 
he  was,  that  his  broken  promises  about  patching 
boots,  would  not  come  up  against  him. 

The  old  factor  of  tamarinds  and  sugar  crackers, 
who  used  to  drive  his  covered  wagon  every  Satur- 
day evening  into  the  play-ground,  I  observed,  still 


NOON:  215 

holding  his  place  in  the  village  choir ;  and  singing 
— though  with  a  tooth  or  two  gone, — as  serenely, 
and  obstreperously  as  ever. 

I  looked  around  the  church,  to  find  the  black- 
eyed  girl  who  always  sat  behind  the  choir, — the 
one  I  loved  to  look  at  so  much.  I  knew  she  must 
be  grown  up  ;  but  I  could  fix  upon  no  face  posi- 
tively ;  once,  as  a  stout  woman  with  a  pair  of 
boys,  and  who  wore  a  big  red  shawl,  turned  half 
around,  I  thought  I  recognized  her  nose.  If  it  was 
she,  it  had  grown  red  though  ;  and  I  felt  cured  of 
my  old  fondness.  As  for  the  other,  who  wore  the 
hat  trimmed  with  fur — she  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen,  among  either  maids,  or  matrons  ;  and  when  I 
asked  the  tavern-keeper,  and  described  her,  and 
her  father,  as  they  were  in  my  school-days,  he  told 
me  that  she  had  married  too,  and  lived  some  five 
miles  from  the  village ;  and  said  he, — "  I  guess  she 
leads  her  husband  a  devil  of  a  life  !  " 

I  felt  cured  of  her  too  ;  but  I  pitied  the  hus- 
band. 

One  of  my  old  teachers  was  in  the  church ;  I 
could  have  sworn  to  his  face ;  he  was  a  precise 
man ;  and  now  I  thought  he  looked  rather  roughly 
at  my  old  shooting  jacket.  But  I  let  him  look, 
and  scowled  at  him  a  little ;  for  I  remembered  that 
he  had  feruled  me  once.  I  thought  it  was  not 
probable  that  he  would  ever  do  it  again. 

There  was  a  bustling  little  lawyer  in  the  village, 
who  lived  in  a  large  house,  and  who  was  the  great 
man  of  that  towu  and  country, — he  had  scarce 


216  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

changed  at  all ;  and  he  stepped  into  the  church  as 
briskly,  and  promptly,  as  he  did  ten  years  ago. 
But  what  struck  me  most,  was  the  change  in  a 
couple  of  pretty,  little,  white-haired  girls,  that  at 
the  time  I  left,  were  of  that  uncertain  age,  when 
the  mother  lifts  them  on  a  Sunday,  and  pounces 
them  down  one  after  the  other  upon  the  seat  of 
the  pew ; — these  were  now  grown  into  blooming 
young  ladies.  And  they  swept  by  me  in  the  vesti- 
bule of  the  church,  with  a  flutter  of  robes,  and  a 
grace  of  motion,  that  fairly  made  my  heart  twitter 
in  my  bosom.  I  know  nothing  that  brings  home 
upon  a  man  so  quick,  the  consciousness  of  increas- 
ing years,  as  to  find  the  little  prattling  girls,  that 
were  almost  babies  in  his  boyhood — become  dash- 
ing ladies ; — and  to  find  those  whom  he  used  to 
look  on  patronizingly,  and  compassionately — 
thinking  they  were  little  girls — grown  to  such 
maturity,  that  the  mere  rustle  of  their  silk  dress 
will  give  him  a  twinge  ;  and  their  eyes,  if  he  looks 
at  them — make  him  unaccountably  shy. 

After  service  I  strolled  up  by  the  school  build- 
ings ;  I  traced  the  names  that  we  had  cut  upon  the 
fence  ;  but  the  fence  had  grown  brown  with  age, 
and  was  nearly  rotted  away.  Upon  the  beech  tree 
in  the  hollow  behind  the  school,  the  carvings  were 
all  overgrown.  It  must  have  been  vacation,  if 
indeed  there  was  any  school  at  all ;  for  I  could  see 
only  one  old  woman  about  the  premises,  and  she 
was  hanging  out  a  dishcloth,  to  dry  in  the  sun. 
I  passed  on  up  the  hill,  beyond  the  buildings, 


NOON.  217 

•where  in  the  boy-days,  we  built  stone  forts  with 
bastions  and  turrets ;  but  the  farmers  had  put 
bastions,  and  turrets,  into  their  cobble-stone  walls. 
At  the  orchard  fence,  I  stopped,  and  looked — from 
force,  I  believe,  of  old  habit,  to  see  if  any  one  were 
watching ; — and  then  leaped  over,  and  found  my 
way  to  the  early  apple  tree ;  but  the  fruit  had  gone 
by.  It  seemed  very  daring  in  me,  even  then,  to 
walk  so  boldly  in  the  forbidden  ground. 

But  the  old  head-master  who  forbade  it,  was 
dead ;  and  Russell  and  Burgess,  and  I  know  not 
how  many  others,  who  in  other  times,  were  culprits 
with  me,  were  dead  too.  When  I  passed  back  by 
the  school  I  lingered  to  look  up  at  the  windows  of 
that  corner  room,  where  I  had  slept  the  sound, 
healthful  sleep  of  boyhood, — and  where  too  I  had 
passed  many — many  wakeful  hours,  thinking  of 
the  absent  Bella,  and  of  my  home. 

How  small,  seem  now,  the  great  griefs  of 

boyhood  !  Light  floating  clouds  will  obscure  the 
sun  that  is  but  half  risen ;  but  let  him  be  up — mid- 
heaven,  and  the  cloud  that  then  darkens  the  land, 
must  be  thick,  and  heavy  indeed. 

The  tears  started  from  my  eyes  : — was  not 

such  a  cloud  over  me  now  ? 


COLLEGE. 

SCHOOL-MATES  slip  cut  of  sight  and  knowledge, 
«nd  are  forgotten  ;    or  if  you  meet  them,  they  bear 
another  character ;    the  boy  is  not  there.     It  is  a 
19 


218  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

new  acquaintance  that  you  make,  with  nothing  of 
your  fellow  upon  the  benches,  but  the  name. 
Though  the  eye  and  face  cleave  to  your  memory, 
and  you  meet  them  afterward,  and  think  you  have 
met  a  friend — the  voice  or  the  action  will  brc:ik 
down  the  charm,  and  you  find  only — another  man. 

But  with  your  classmates,  in  that  later  school, 
where  form  and  character  were  both  nearer  ripe- 
ness, and  where  knowledge  labored  for  together, 
bred  the  first  manly  sympathies, — it  is  different. 
And  as  you  meet  them,  or  hear  of  them,  the 
thought  of  their  advance  makes  a  measure  of  your 
own — it  makes  a  measure  of  the  NOW. 

You  judge  of  your  happiness,  by  theirs, — of 
your  progress,  by  theirs,  and  of  your  prospects,  by 
theirs.  If  one  is  happy,  you  seek  to.  trace  out  the 
way  by  which  he  has  wrought  out  his  happiness  : 
you  consider  how  it  differs  from  your  own :  and 
you  think  with  sighs,  how  you  might  possibly 
have  wrought  the  same ;  but  now  it  has  escaped. 
If  another  has  won  some  honorable  distinction,  you 
fall  to  thinking,  how  the  man — your  old  equal,  as 
you  thought,  upon  the  college  benches — has  outrun 
you.  It  pricks  to  effort,  and  teaches  the  difference 
between  now,  and  then.  Life  with  all  its  duties 
and  hopes,  gathers  upon  your  Present,  like  a  great 
weight,  or  like  a  storm  ready  to  burst.  It  is  met 
anew ;  it  pleads  more  strongly ;  and  action  that 
has  been  negelcted,  rises  before  you — a  giant  of 
remorse. 

Stop  not,  loiter  not,  look  not  backward,  if  you 


NOON. 


219 


would  be  among  the  foremost !  The  great  Now, 
so  quick,  so  broad,  so  fleeting,  is  yours ; — in  an 
hour  it  will  belong  to  the  Eternity  of  the  Past. 
The  temper  of  Life  is  to  be  made  good  by  big 
honest  blows;  stop  striking,  and  you  will  do  noth- 
ing  ;  strike  feebly,  and  you  will  do  almost  as  little, 
Success  rides  on  every  hour :  grapple  it,  and  you 
may  win :  but  without  a  grapple,  it  will  never  go 
with  you.  Work  is  the  weapon  of  honor,  and  who 
lacks  the  weapon,  will  never  triumph. 

There  were  some  seventy  of  us — all  scattered 
now.  I  meet  one  here  and  there  at  wide  distances 
apart ;  and  we  talk  together  of  old  days,  and  of 
our  present  work  and  life, — and  separate.  Just  so 
ships  at  sea,  in  murky  weather,  will  shift  their 
course  to  come  within  hailing  distance,  and  com- 
pare their  longitude,  and part.  One  I  have 

met  wandering  in  southern  Italy,  dreaming  as  I 
Wcis  dreaming — over  the  tomb  of  Virgil,  by  the 
dark  grotto  of  Pausilippo.  It  seemed  strange  to 
talk  of  our  old  readings  in  Tacitus  there  upon 
classic  ground  ;  but  we  did ;  and  ran  on  to  talk  of 
our  lives  ;  and  sitting  down  upon  the  promontory 
of  Baie,  looking  off  upon  that  blue  sea,  as  clear  as 
the  classics,  we  told  each  other  our  respective 
stories.  And  two  nights  after,  upon  the  quay,  in 
sight  of  Vesuvius,  which  shed  a  lurid  glow  upon 
the  sky,  that  was  reflected  from  the  white  walls  of 
the  Hotel  de  Russie,  and  from  the  broad  lava  pave- 
ments, we  patred — he  to  wander  among  the  islea 
of  the  JEgean,  and  I  to  turn  northward. 


220  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Another  time,  as  I  was  wandering  among  those 
mysterious  figures  that  crowd  the  foyer  of  the 
French  opera  upon  a  night  of  the  Masked  Ball,  I 
saw  a  familiar  face :  I  followed  it  with  my  eye, 
until  I  became  convinced.  He  did  not  know  me 
until  I  named  his  old  seat  upon  the  bench  of  the 

Division  Room,  and  the  hard-faced  Tutor  G . 

Then  we  talked  of  the  old  rivalries,  and  Christmas 
jollities,  and  of  this  and  that  one,  whom  we  had 
come  upon  in  our  wayward  tracks ;  while  the 
black-robed  grisettes  stared  through  their  velvet 
masks ; — nor  did  we  tire  of  comparing  the  old 
memories,  with  the  unearthly  gaiety  of  the  scene 
about  us,  until  day-light  broke. 

In  a  quiet  mountain  town  of  New  England.  I 
came  not  long  since  upon  another :  he  was  hale  and 
hearty,  and  pushing  his  lawyer  work  with  just  the 
same  nervous  energy,  with  which  he  used  to  recite 
a  theorem  of  Euclid.  He  was  father  too  of  a 
couple  of  stout,  curly-pated  boys ;  and  his  good 
woman,  as  he  called  her,  appeared  a  sensible,  hon- 
est, good-natured  lady.  I  must  say  that  I  envied 
him  his  wife,  much  more  than  I  had  envied  my 
companion  of  the  opera — his  Domino. 

I  happened  only  a  little  while  ago  to  drop  into 
the  college  chapel  of  a  Sunday.  There  were  the 
same  hard  oak  benches  below,  and  the  lucky  fel- 
lows who  enjoyed  a  corner  seat,  were  leaning  back 
upon  the  rail,  after  the  old  fashion.  The  tutors 
were  perched  up  in  their  side  boxes,  looking  as 
prim,  and  serious,  and  important,  as  ever.  The 


NOOK  221 

same  stout  Doctor  read  the  hymn  in  the  same 
rhythmical  way  ;  and  prayed  the  same  prayer,  for 
(I  thought)  the  same  old  sort  of  sinners.  As  I  shut 
my  eyes  to  listen,  it  seemed  as  if  the  intermediate 
years  had  all  gone  out ;  and  that  I  was  on  my  own 
pew  bench,  and  thinking  out  those  little  schemes 
for  excuses,  or  for  effort,  which  were  to  relieve  me, 
or  to  advance  me,  in  my  college  world. 

There  was  a  pleasure,  like  the  pleasure  of 
dreaming  about  forgotten  joys — in  listening  to  the 
Doctor's  sermon  :  he  began  iji  the  same  half  em- 
barrassed, half  awkward  way  ;  and  fumbled  at  his 
Bible  leaves,  and  the  poor,  pinched  cushion,  as  he 
did  long  before.  But  as  he  went  on  with  his  rusty 
and  polemic  vigor,  the  poetry  within  him  would 
now  and  then  warm  his  soul  into  a  burst  of  fervid 
eloquence,  and  his  face  would  glow,  and  his  hand 
tremble,  and  the  cushion  and  the  Bible  leaves  be 
all  forgot,  in  the  glow  of  his  thought,  until  with  a 
half  cough,  and  a  pinch  at  the  cushion,  he  fell 
back  into  his  strong,  but  tread-mill  argumentation. 

In  the  corner  above,  was  the  stately,  white- 
haired  professor,  wearing  the  old  dignity  of  car- 
riage, and  a  smile  as  bland,  as  if  the  years  had  all 
been  playthings ;  and  had  I  seen  him  in  his  lecture- 
room,  I  daresay  I  should  have  found  the  same 
suavity  of  address,  the  same  marvellous  currency 
of  talk,  and  the  same  infinite  composure  over  the 
exploding  retorts. 

Near  him  was  the  silver  haired  old  gentleman, 
— with  a  very  astute  expression, — who  used  to  have 
19* 


222  ££VERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

an  odd  habit  of  tightening  his  cloak  about  his 
nether  limbs.  I  could  not  see  that  his  eye  was  any 
the  less  bright ;  nor  did  he  seem  less  eager  to  catch 
at  the  handle  of  some  witticism,  or  bit  of  satire, — 
to  the  poor  student's  cost.  I  remembered  my  old 
awe  of  him,  I  must  say,  with  something  of  a 
grudge ;  but  I  had  got  fairly  over  it  now.  There 
are  sharper  griefs  in  life,  than  a  professor's  talk. 

Farther  on,  I  saw  the  long-faced,  dark-haired 
man,  who  looked  as  if  he  were  always  near  some 
explosive,  electric  battery,  or  upon  an  insulated 
stool.  He  was,  I  believe,  a  man  of  fine  feelings ; 
but  he  had  a  way  of  reducing  all  action  to  dry, 
hard,  mathematical  system,  with  very  little  poetry 
about  it.  I  know  there  was  not  much  poetry  in 
his  problems  in  physics,  and  still  less  in  his  half- 
yearly  examinations.  But  I  do  not  dread  them 
now. 

Over  opposite,  I  was  glad  to  see  still,  the  aged 
head  of  the  kind,  and  generous  old  man,  who  in 
my  day  presided  over  the  college ;  and  who  carried 
with  him  the  affections  of  each  succeeding  class, — 
added  to  their  respect  for  his  learning.  This 
seems  a  higher  triumph  to  me  now,  than  it  seemed 
then.  A  strong  mind,  or  a  cultivated  mind  may 
challenge  respect ;  but  there  is  needed  a  noble  one, 
to  win  affection. 

A  new  man  now  filled  his  place  in  the  presi- 
dent's seat ;  but  he  was  one  whom  I  had  known, 
and  been  proud  to  know.  His  figure  was  bent,  and 
thin — the  very  figure  that  an  old  Flemish  master 


NOON.  223 

•would  have  chosen,  for  a  scholar.  His  eye  had  a 
kind  of  piercing  lustre,  as  if  it  had  long  been  fixed 
on  books ;  and  his  expression — when  unrelieved  by 
his  affable  smile — was  that  of  hard  midnight  toil. 
With  all  his  polish  of  mind,  he  was  a  gentleman  at 
heart ;  and  treated  us  always  with  a  manly  cour- 
tesy, that  is  not  forgotten. 

But  of  all  the  faces  that  used  to  be  ranged 
below — four  hundred  men  and  boys — there  was  not 
one,  with  whom  to  join  hands,  and  live  back  again. 
Their  griefs,  joys,  and  toil,  were  chaining  them  to 
their  labor  of  life.  Each  one  in  his  thought, 
coursing  over  a  world  as  wide  as  my  own  ; — how 
many  thousand  worlds  of  thought,  upon  this  one 
world  of  ours ! 

I  stepped  dreamily  through  the  corridors  of  the 
old  Atheneum,  thinking  of  that  first,  fearful  step, 
when  the  faces  were  new,  and  the  stern  tutor  was 
strange,  and  the  prolix  Livy  so  hard.  I  went  up  at 
night,  and  skulked  around  the  buildings,  when  the 
lights  were  blazing  from  all  the  windows,  and 
they  were  busy  with  their  tasks, — plain  tasks,  and 
easy  tasks, — because  they  are  certain  tasks.  Happy 
fellows — thought  I — who  have  only  to  do,  what  is 
set  before  you  to  be  done.  But  the  time  is  coming, 
and  very  fast,  when  you  must  not  only  do,  but 
know  what  to  do.  The  time  is  coming,  when  in 
place  of  your  one  master,  you  will  have  a  thousand 
masters — masters  of  duty,  of  business,  of  pleasure, 
and  of  grief — giving  you  harder  lessons  each  one 
of  them,  than  any  of  your  Fluxions. 


224  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

MORNING  will  pass,  and  the  NOON  will  come— 
hot,  and  scorching. 

THE    PACQUET    OF    BELLA. 

I  HAVE  not  forgotten  that  pacquet  of  Bella  ;  I 
did  not  once  forget  it.  And  when  I  saw  Lilly — 
now  the  grown  up  Lilly,  happy  in  her  household, 
and  blithe  as  when  she  was  a  maiden,  she  gave  it 
to  me.  She  told  me  too  of  Bella's  illness,  and  of 
her  suffering,  and  of  her  manner,  when  she  put  the 
little  pacquet  in  her  hand  '  for  Cousin  Paul.'  But 
this  I  will  not  repeat ; — I  cannot. 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  I  shuddered  at  the 
mention  of  her  name.  There  are  some  who  will 
talk,  at  table,  and  in  their  gossip,  of  dead  friends ; 
I  wonder  how  they  do  it  ?  For  myself,  when  the 
grave  has  closed  its  gates  on  the  faces  of  those  I 
love — however  busy  my  mournful  thought  may  be, 
the  tongue  is  silent.  I  cannot  name  their  names ; 
it  shocks  me  to  hear  them  named.  It  seems  like 
tearing  open  half-healed  wounds,  and  disturbing 
with  harsh  worldly  noise,  the  sweet  sleep  of  death. 

I  loved  Bella.  I  know  not  how  I  loved  her, — 
whether  as  a  lover,  or  as  a  husband  loves  a  wife  ;  I 
only  know  this, — I  always  loved  her.  She  was  so 
gentle — so  beautiful, — so  confiding,  that  I  never 
once  thought,  but  that  the  whole  world  loved  her, 
as  well  as  I.  There  was  only  one  thing  I  never  told 

to  Bella  ; 1  would  tell  her  of  all  my  grief,  and 

of  all  my  joys;  I  would  tell  her  my  hopes,  my 


NOOK  225 

ambitious  dreams,  my  disappointments,  my  anger, 
and  my  dislikes  ; — but  I  never  told  her  how  much 
I  loved  her. 

I  do  not  know  why,  unless  I  knew  that  it  was 
needless.  But  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of 
telling  Bella  on  some  winter's  day — Bella,  it  is 
winter ! — or  of  whispering  to  her  on  some  balmy 
day  of  August — Bella,  it  is  summer ! — as  of  telling 
her,  after  she  had  grown  to  girlhood, — Bella,  I  love 
you ! 

I  had  received  one  letter  from  her  in  the  old 
countries  ;  it  was  a  sweet  letter,  in  which  she  told 
me  all  that  she  had  been  doing,  and  how  she  had 
thought  of  me,  when  she  rambled  over  the  woods 
where  we  had  rambled  together.  She  had  written 
two  or  three  other  letters,  Lilly  told  me,  but  they 
had  never  reached  me.  I  had  told  her  too  of  all 
that  made  my  happiness ;  I  wrote  her  about  the 
sweet  girl  I  had  seen  on  shipboard,  and  how  I  met 
her  afterward,  and  what  a  happy  time  we  passed 
down  in  Devon.  I  even  told  her  of  the  strange 
dream  I  had,  in  which  Isabel  seemed  to  be  in  Eng- 
land, and  to  turn  away  from  me  sadly  because  I 
called — Carry. 

I  also  told  her  of  all  I  saw  in  that  great  world 
of  Paris — writing,  as  I  would  write  to  a  sister ;  and 
I  told  her  too  of  the  sweet  Roman  girl,  Enrica — of 
her  brown  hair,  and  of  her  rich  eyes,  and  of  her 
pretty  Carnival  dresses.  And  when  I  missed  letter 
after  letter,  I  told  her  that  she  must  still  write  her 
letters,  or  some  little  journal,  and  read  it  to  me 


226  REVERIES  OF  A  EACHELOR. 

when  I  came  back.  I  thought  how  pleasant  it 
would  be  to  sit  under  the  trees  by  her  father's 
house,  and  listen  to  her  tender  voice  going  through 
that  record  of  her  thoughts,  and  fears.  Alas,  how 
our  hopes  betray  us  ! 

It  began  almost  like  a  diary,  about  the  time 
that  her  father  fell  sick.  "  It  is  " — said  she  to 
Lilly,  when  she  gave  it  to  her,  "  what  I  would  have 
said  to  Cousin  Paul,  if  he  had  been  here." 

It  begins  " 1  have  come  back  now  to 

father's  house ;  I  could  not  leave  him  alone,  for  they 
told  me  he  was  sick.  I  found  him  not  well ;  he 
was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  kissed  me  so  tenderly 
that  I  am  sure,  Cousin  Paul,  you  would  not  have 
said,  as  you  used  to  say — that  he  was  a  cold  man  ! 
I  sometimes  read  to  him,  sitting  in  the  deep  library 
Window,  (you  remember  it,)  where  we  used  to 
nestle  out  of  his  sight  at  dusk.  He  cannot  read 
any  more. 

"  I  would  give  anything  to  see  the  little  Carry 
you  speak  of;  but  do  you  know  you  did  not  de- 
scribe her  to  me  at  all ;  will  you  not  tell  me  if  she 
has  dark  hair,  or  light,  or  if  her  eyes  are  blue,  or 
dark,  like  mine  ?  Is  she  good  ;  did  she  not  make 
ugly  speeches,  or  grow  peevish,  in  those  long  days 
upon  the  ocean  ?  How  I  would  have  liked  to  have 
been  with  you,  on  those  clear  starlit  nights, 
looking  off  upon  the  water !  But  then  I  think 
that  you  would  not  have  wished  me  there ;  and 
that  you  did  not  once  think  of  me  even.  This 


NOOK  227 

makes  me  sad ;  yet  I  know  not  why  it  should  ;  for 
I  always  liked  you  best,  when  you  were  happy ; 
and  I  am  sure  you  must  have  been  happy  then. 
You  say  you  shall  never  see  her  after  you  have  left 
the  ship : — you  must  not  think  so,  Cousin  Paul ;  if 
she  is  so  beautiful,  and  fond,  as  you  tell  me,  your 
own  heart  will  lead  you  in  her  way,  some  time 
again ;  I  feel  almost  sure  of  it. 

*  *     *    "  Father  is  getting  more  and  more 
feeble,  and  wandering  in  his  mind ;   this  -is  very 
dreadful ;   he  calls  me  sometimes  by  my  mother's 
name ;    and  when  I  say — it  is  Isabel, — be  says — 
what  Isabel !   and  treats  me  as  if  I  was  a  stranger. 
The  physician  shakes  his  head  when  I  ask  him  of 
father :   oh,  Paul,  if  he  should  die — what  could  I 
do?    I  should  die  too — I  know  I  should.     Who 
would  there  be  to  care  for  me  ?     Lilly  is  married, 
and  Ben  is  far  off,  and  you,  Paul,  whom  I  love  bet- 
ter than  either,  are  a  long  way  from  me.     But  God 
is  good,  and  He  will  spare  my  father. 

*  *    *     "  So  you  have  seen  again  your  little 
Carry :   I  told  you  it  would  be  so.     You  tell  me 
how  accidental  it  was: — ah,  Paul,  Paul,  you  rogue, 
honest  as  you  are,  I  half  doubt  you  there  !     I  like 
your  description  of  her  too, — dark  eyes  like  mine 
you  say — '  almost  as  pretty ; '    well,  Paul,  I  will 
forgive  jou  that      it  is  only  a  white  lie.      You 
know  they  must  be  a  great  deal  prettier  than  mine, 
or  you  would  never  have  stayed  a  whole  fortnight 


228  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

in  an  old  farmer's  house,  far  down  in  Devon  !  I 
wish  I  could  see  her :  I  wish  she  was  here  with 
you  now  ;  for  it  is  midsummer,  and  the  trees  and 
flowers  were  never  prettier.  But  I  am  all  alone  ; 
father  is  too  ill  to  go  out  at  all.  I  fear  now  very 
much,  that  he  will  never  go  out  again.  Lilly  waa 
here  yesterday,  but  he  did  not  know  her.  She 
read  me  your  last  letter :  it  was  not  so  long  as 
mine.  You  are  very — very  good  to  me,  Paul. 

*  *  *  « jror  a  long  tune  I  have  written 
nothing :  my  father  has  been  very  ill,  and  the  old 
housekeeper  has  been  sick  too,  and  father  would 
have  no  one  but  me  near  him.  He  cannot  live 
long.  I  feel  sadly — miserably  ;  you  will  not  know 
me  when  you  come  home  ;  your  '  pretty  Bella  ' — as 
you  used  to  call  me,  will  have  lost  all  her  beauty. 
But  perhaps  you  will  not  care  for  that,  for  you  tell 
me  you  have  found  one  prettier  than  ever.  I  do 
not  know,  Cousin  Paul,  but  it  is  because  I  am  so 
sad,  and  selfish — for  sorrow  is  selfish — but  I  do  not 
like  your  raptures  about  the  Roman  girl.  Be  care- 
ful, Paul :  I  know  your  heart :  it  is  quick  and  sen- 
sitive ;  and  I  dare  say  she  is  pretty,  a*nd  has  beau- 
tiful eyes ;  for  they  tell  me  all  the  Italian  girls 
have  soft  eyes. 

"  But  Italy  is  far  away,  Paul ;  I  can  never  see 
Enrica ;  she  will  never  come  here.  No — no,  re- 
member Devon :  I  feel  as  if  Carry  was  a  sister  now : 
I  cannot  feel  so  of  the  Roman  girl :  I  do  not  want 
to  feel  so.  You  will  say  this  is  harsh  ;  and  I  am 


NOON.  229 

afraid  you  will  not  like  me  so  well  for  it ;  but  I 
cannot  help  saying  it.  I  love  you  too  well,  Cousin 
Paul,  not  to  say  it. 

*  *  *  "  It  is  all  over  !  Indeed,  Paul,  I  am 
very  desolate  !  '  The  golden  bowl  is  broken ' — my 
poor  father  has  gone  to  his  last  home.  I  was 
expecting  it ;  but  how  can  we  expect  that  fearful 
comer — death  ?  He  had  been  for  a  long  time  so 
feeble,  that  he  could  scarce  speak  at  all :  he  sat  for 
hours  in  his  chair,  looking  upon  the  fire,  or  look- 
ing out  at  the  window.  He  would  hardly  notice 
me  when  I  came  to  change  his  pillows,  or  to 
smooth  them  for  his  head.  But  before  he  died,  he 
knew  me  as  well  as  ever.  '  Isabel,'  he  said,  '  you 
have  been  a  good  daughter :  God  will  reward 
you ! '  and  he  kissed  me  so  tenderly,  and  looked 
after  me  so  anxiously,  with  such  intelligence  in  his 
look,  that  I  thought  perhaps  he  would  revive 
again.  In  the  evening  lie  asked  me  for  one  of  his 
books,  that  he  loved  very  much.  '  Father,'  said  I, 
'  you  cannot  read ;  it  is  almost  dark.' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,'  said  he  ;  '  Isabel,  I  can  read  now. 
And  I  brought  it ;  he  kept  my  hand  a  long  while ; 
then  he  opened  the  book ; — it  was  a  book  about 
death. 

"  I  brought  a  candle,  for  I  knew  he  could  not 
read  without. 

"  '  Isabel,  dear,'  said  he,  put  the  candle  a  little 
nearer.'  But  it  was  close  beside  him  even  then. 

"  '  A  little  nearer,  Isabel,' — repeated  he,  and  his 
20 


230  REVERIES  GF  d  B.\  CIIEL OX. 

voice  was  very  faint;  and  lie  grasped  my  hand 
hard. 

"  ' Nearer,  Isabel ! nearer  ! ' 

"  There  was  no  need  to  do  it,  for  my  poor 
father  was  dead  !  Oh  !  Paul,  Paul ! — pity  me.  I 
do  not  know  but  I  am  crazed.  It  does  not  seem 
the  same  world  it  was.  And  the  house,  and  the 
trees,  oh,  they  are  very  dismal ! 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  home,  Cousin  Paul : 
life  would  not  be  so  very — very  blank  as  it  is  now. 
Lilly  is  kind ; — I  thank  her  from  my  heart.  But  it 
is  not  her  father  who  is  dead  ! 

*  *    *    "I  am  calmer  now ;    I   am   staying 
with  Lilly.     The  world  seems  smaller  than  it  did  ; 
but  Heaven  seems  a  great  deal  larger :  there  is  a 
place  for  us  all  there,  Paul, — if  we  only  seek  it ! 
They  tell  me  you  are  coming  home :    I  am  glad. 
You  will  not  like  perhaps  to  come  away  from  that 
pretty  Enrica,  you  speak  of ;  but  do  so,  Paul.     It 
seems  to  me  that  I  see  clearer  than  I  did,  and  I 
talk  bolder.     The  girlish  Isabel  you  will  not  find, 
for  I  am  much  older,  and  my  air  is  more  grave ; 
and  this  suffering  has  made  me  feeble — very  feeble. 

*  *    *     "  It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  write ;  but 
I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  just  found  out  who 
your  Carry  is.     Years  ago,  when  you  were   n  vay 
from  home,  I  was  at  school  with  her.     We  were 
always  together.    I  wonder  I  could  not  have  found 

;  her  ouf  from  your  description  ;  but  I  did  not  even 


NOON.  231 

suspect  it.  She  is  a  dear  girl,  and  is  worthy  of  all 
your  love.  I  have  seen  her  once  since  you  have  met 
her :  we  talked  of  you.  She  spoke  kindly — very 
kindly  :  more  than  this,  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  I  do 
not  know  more.  Ah,  Paul,  may  you  be  happy  :  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  but  a  little  while  to  live. 

*  *     *     "  It  is  even  so,  my  dear  Cousin  Paul, 
— I  shall  write  but  little  more  ;  my  hand  trembles 
now.     But  I  am  ready.     It  is  a  glorious  world 
beyond  this — I  know  it  is !    And  there  we  shall 
meet.     I  did  hope  to  see  you  once  again,  and  to 
hear  your  voice,  speaking  to  me  as  you  used  to 
speak.     But  I  shall  not.     Life  is  too  frail  with  me. 
I  seem  to  live  wholly  now  in  the  world  where  I  am 
going : — there  is  my  mother,  and  my  father,  and  my 
little  brother — we  shall  meet — I  know  we  shall 
meet ! 

*  *    *    "  The    last — Paul.     Never    again  in 
this  world  !     I  am  happy — very  happy.     You  will 
come  to  me.     I  can  write  no  more.     May  good 
angels  guard  you,  and  bring  you  to  Heaven  1 " 


-Shall  I  go  on  ? 


But  the  toils  of  life  are  upon  me.  Private  griefs 
do  not  break  the  force,  and  the  weight  of  the  great 
— Present.  A  life — at  best  the  half  of  it,  is  before 
me.  It  is  to  be  wrought  out  with  nerve  and  work. 
And — blessed  be  God  ! — there  are  gleams  of  sun- 
light upon  it.  That  sweet  Carry,  doubly  dear  to 


232  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

me  now,  that  she  is  joined  with  my  sorrow  for  the 

lost  Isabel, shall  be  sought  for  ! 

And  with  her  sweet  image  floating  before  me, 
the  NOON  wanes,  and  the  shadows  of  EVENING 
lengthen  upon  the  land. 


III. 

Evening. 

Future  is  a  great  land : — how  the  lights, 
JL  and  the  shadows  throng  over  it, — bright  and 
dark,  slow  and  swift ! 

Pride  and  Ambition  build  up  great  castles  on 
its  plains, — great  monuments  on  the  mountains, 
that  reach  heavenward,  and  dip  their  tops  in  the 
blue  of  Eternity  !  Then  comes  an  earthquake — the 
earthquake  of  disappointment,  of  distrust,  or  of 
inaction,  and  lays  them  low.  Gaping  desolation 
widens  its  breaches  everywhere ;  the  eye  is  full 
of  them,  and  can  see  nothing  beside.  By  and  by, 
the  sun  peeps  forth, — as  now  from  behind  yonder 
cloud — and  reanimates  the  soul. 

Fame  beckons,  sitting  high  in  the  heavens ;  and 
joy  lends  a  halo  to  the  vision.  A  thousand  re- 
solves stir  ycur  heart ;  your  hand  is  hot,  and  fever- 
ish for  action  ;  your  brain  works  madly,  and  you 
snatch  here,  and  you  snatch  there,  in  the  convul- 
20* 


234  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

sive  throes  of  jour  delirium.  Perhaps  you  see 
some  earnest,  careful  plodder,  once  far  behind  you, 
now  toiling  slowly  but  surely,  over  the  plain  of 
life,  until  he  seems  near  to  grasping  those  brilliant 
phantoms  which  dance  along  the  horizon  of  the 
future ;  and  the  sight  stirs  your  soul  to  frenzy,  and 
you  bound  on  after  him  with  the  madness  of  a 
fever  in  your  veins.  But  it  was  by  no  such  action, 
that  the  fortunate  toiler  has  won  his  progress.  His 
hand  is  steady,  his  brain  is  cool ;  his  eye  is  fixed, 
and  sure. 

The  Future  is  a  great  laud  ;  a  man  cannot  go 
around  it  in  a  day  ;  he  cannot  measure  it  with  a 
bound ;  he  cannot  bind  its  harvests  into'a  single 
sheaf.  It  is  wider  than  the  vision,  and  has  no 
end. 

Tet  always,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  second 
by  second,  the  hard  Present  is  elbowing  us  off  into 
that  great  land  of  the  Future.  Our  souls  indeed, 
wander  to  it,  as  to  a  home-land  ;  they  run  beyond 
time  and  space,  beyond  planets  and  suns,  beyond 
far-off  suns  and  comets,  until  like  blind  flies,  they 
are  lost  in  the  blaze  of  immensity,  and  can  only 
grope  their  way  back  to  our  earth,  and  our  time, 
by  the  cunning  of  instinct. 

Cut  out  the  Future — even  that  little  Future, 
which  is  the  EVENING  of  our  life,  and  what  a  fall 
into  vacuity !  Forbid  those  earnest  forays  over 
the  borders  of  Now,  and  on  what  spoils  would  the 
soul  live  ? 

For  myself,  I  delight  to  wander  there,  and  to 


EVEMNG.  235 

weave  every  day,  the  passing  life,  into  the  coming 
life, — so  closely,  that  I  may  be  unconscious  of  the 
joining.  And  if  so  be  that  I  am  able,  I  would 
make  the  whole  piece  bear  fair  proportions,  and 
just  figures, — like  those  tapestries,  on  which  nuns 
work  by  inches,  and  finish  with  their  lives;— or 
like  those  grand  frescoes,  which  poet  artists  have 
wrought  on  the  vaults  of  old  cathedrals,  gaunt, 
and  colossal, — appearing  mere  daubs  of  carmine 
and  azure,  as  they  lay  upon  their  backs,  working 
out  a  hand's  breadth  at  a  time,— but  when  com- 
plete, showing — symmetrical,  and  glorious ! 

But  not  alone  does  the  soul  wander  to  those 
glittering  heights  where  fame  sits,  with  plumes 
waving  in  zephyrs  of  applause  ;  there  belong  to  it, 
other  appetites  which  range  wide,  and  constantly 
over  the  broad  Future-land.  We  are  not  merely, 
working,  intellectual  machines,  but  social  puzzles, 
whose  solution  is  the  work  of  a  life.  Much  as  hope 
may  lean  toward  the  intoxicating  joy  of  distinc- 
tion, there  is  another  leaning  in  the  soul,  deeper, 
and  stronger,  toward  those  pleasures  which  the 
heart  pants  for,  and  in  whose  atmosphere,  the 
affections  bloom  and  ripen. 

The  first  may  indeed  be  uppermost ;  it  may  be 
noisiest ;  it  may  drown  with  the  clamor  of  mid-day, 
the  nicer  sympathies.  But  all  our  day  is  not  mid- 
day ;  and  all  our  life  is  not  noise.  Silence  is  as 
strong  as  the  soul ;  and  there  is  no  tempest  so  wild 
with  blasts,  but  has  a  wilder  lull.  There  lies  in 
the  depth  of  every  man's  soul  a  mine  of  affection, ' 


236  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

which  from  time  to  time  will  burn  with  the  seeth- 
ing heat  of  a  volcano,  and  heave  up  lava-like  monu- 
ments, through  all  the  cold  strata  of  his  commoner 
nature. 

One  may  hide  his  warmer  feelings ; — he  may 
paint  them  dimly  ; — he  may  crowd  them  out  of  his 
sailing  chart,  where  he  only  sets  down  the  harbors 
for  traffic  ;  yet  in  his  secret  heart,  he  will  map  out 
upon  the  great  country  of  the  Future,  fairy  islands 
of  love,  and  of  joy.  There,  he  will  be  sure  to  wan- 
der, when  his  soul  is  lost  in  those  quiet  and  hal- 
lowed hopes,  which  take  hold  on  heaven. 

Love  only,  unlocks  the  door  upon  that  Futurity, 
where  the  isles  of  the  blessed  lie  like  stars.  Affec- 
tion is  the  stepping  stone  to  God.  The  heart  is 
our  only  measure  of  infinitude.  The  mind  tires 
with  greatness ;  the  heart — never.  Thought  is 
worried  and  weakened  in  its  flight  through  the 
immensity  of  space ;  but  Love  soars  around  the 
throne  of  the  Highest,  with  added  blessing  and 
strength. 

I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others,  but  with 
me,  the  heart  is  a  readier,  and  quicker  builder  of 
those  fabrics  which  strew  the  great  country  of  the 
Future,  than  the  mind.  They  may  not  indeed  rise 
so  high,  as  the  dizzy  pinnacles  that  ambition  loves 
to  rear ;  but  they  lie  like  fragrant  islands,  in  a  sea, 
whose  ripple  is  a  continuous  melody. 

And  as  I  muse  now,  looking  toward  the  Ev FIN- 
ING, which  is  already  begun, — tossed  as  I  am  with 
the  toils  of  the  Past,  and  bewildered  with  the  vexa- 


EVENING.  237 

tions  of  the  Present,  my  affections  are  the  architect, 
that  build  up  the  future  refuge.  And,  in  fancy  at 
least,  I  will  build  it  boldly  ; — saddened  it  may  be 
by  the  chance  shadows  of  evening ;  but  through, 
all,  I  will  hope  for  a  sunset,  when  the  day  ends, 
glorious  with  crimson  and  gold. 

CAERT. 

I  SAID  that  harsh,  and  hot  as  was  the  Present, 
there  were  joyous  gleams  of  light  playing  over  the 
Future.  How  else  could  it  be,  when  that  fair 
being  whom  I  met  first  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean, 
and  whose  name  even,  is  hallowed  by  the  dying 
words  of  Isabel,  is  living  in  the  same  world  with 
me  ?  Amid  all  the  perplexities  that  haunt  me,  as 
I  wander  from  the  present  to  the  future,  the 
thought  of  her  image,  of  her  smile,  of  her  last  kind 
adieu,  throws  a  dash  of  sunlight  upon  my  path. 

And  yet  why  ?  Is  it  not  very  idle  ?  Years 
have  passed  since  I  have  seen  her :  I  do  not  even 
know  where  she  may  be.  What  is  she  to  me  ? 

My  heart  whispers — very  much  ! — but  I  do  not 
listen  to  that  in  my  prouder  moods.  She  is  a 
woman,  a  beautiful  woman  indeed,  whom  I  have 
known  once — pleasantly  known  :  she  is  living,  but 
she  will  die,  or  she  will  marry  ; — I  shall  hear  of  it 
by  and  by,  and  sigh  perhaps — nothing  more.  Life 
is  earnest  around  me  ;  there  is  no  time  to  delve  in 
the  past,  for  bright  things  to  shed  radiance  on  the 
future. 


238  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHE LOP. 

I  will  forget  the  sweet  girl,  who  was  with  me 
upon  the  ocean,  and  think  she  is  dead.  This 
manly  soul  is  strong,  if  we  would  but  think  so  :  it 
can  make  a  puppet  of  griefs,  and  take  down,  and 
set  up  at  will,  the  symbols  of  its  hope. 

— But  no,  I  cannot :  the  more  I  think  thus,  the 
less,  I  really  think  thus.  A  single  smile  of  that 
frail  girl,  when  I  recal  it, — mocks  all  my  proud  pur- 
poses ;  as  if,  without  her,  my  purposes  were  noth- 
ing. 

Pshaw  ! — I  say — it  is  idle  ! — and  I  bury 

my  thought  in  books,  and  in  long  hours  of  toil ; 
but  as  the  hours  lengthen,  and  my  head  sinks  with 
fatigue,  and  the  shadows  of  evening  play  around 
me,  there  comes  again  that  sweet  vision,  saying 
with  tender  mockery — is  it  idle  ?  And  I  am  help- 
less, and  am  led  away  hopefully  and  joyfully, 
toward  the  golden  gates  which  open  on  the  Future. 

But  this  is  only  in  those  silent  hours  when  the 
man  is  alone,  and  away  from  his  working  thoughts. 
At  mid-day,  or  in  the  rush  of  the  world,  he  puts 
hard  armor  on,  that  reflects  all  the  light  of  such 
joyous  fancies.  He  is  cold  and  careless,  and  ready 
for  suffering,  and  for  fight. 

One  day  I  am  travelling :  I  am  absorbed  in 
some  present  cares — thinking  out  some  plan  which 
is  to  make  easier,  or  more  successful,  the  voyage  of 
life.  I  glance  upon  the  passing  scenery,  and  upon 
new  faces,  with  that  careless  indifference  which 
grows  upon  a  man  with  years,  and  above  nil,  with 
travel.  There  is  no  wire  to  enlist  your  sympathies 


EVENING.  239 

— no  children  to  sport  with  :  my  friends  are  few, 
and  scattered  ;  and  are  working  out  fairly,  what  is 
before  them  to  do.  Lilly  is  living  here,  and  Ben  is 
living  there :  their  letters  are  cheerful,  contented 
letters  ;  and  they  wish  me  well.  Griefs  even  have 
grown  light  with  wearing ;  and  I  am  just  in  that 
careless  humor — as  if  I  said, — jog  on,  old  world — 
jog  on  !  And  the  end  will  come  along  soon  ;  and 
we  shall  get — poor  devils  that  we  are— just  what 
we  deserve ! 

But  on  a  sudden,  my  eyes  rest  on  a  figure  that 
I  think  I  know.  Now,  the  indifference  flies  like 
mist ;  and  my  heart  throbs :  and  the  old  visions 
come  up.  I  watch  her,  as  if  there  was  nothing  else 
to  be  seen.  The  form  is  hers ;  the  grace  is  hers ; 
the  simple  dress — so  neat,  so  tasteful, — that  is  hers 
too.  She  half  turns  her  head  : — it  is  the  face  that 
I  saw  under  the  velvet  cap,  in  the  Park  of  Devon  ! 

I  do  not  rush  forward :  I  sit  as  if  I  were  in  a 
trance.  I  watch  her  every  action — the  kind  atten- 
tions to  her  mother  who  sits  beside  her, — her  naive 
exclamations,  as  we  pass  some  point  of  surpassing 
beauty.  It  seems  as  if  a  new  world  were  opening 
to  me ;  yet  I  cannot  tell  why.  I  keep  my  place, 
and  think,  and  gaze.  I  tear  the  paper  I  hold  in 
my  hand  into  shreds.  I  play  with  my  watch  chain, 
and  twist  the  seal,  until  it  is  near  breaking.  I  take 
oat  my  watch,  look  at  it,  and  put  it  back — yet  I 
.",amiot  tell  the  hour. 

It  is  she — I  murmur — I  know  it  is  Carry  ! 

But  when  they  rise  to  leave,  my  lethargy  ia 


240  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

broken;  yet  it  is  with  a  trembling  hesitation — a 
faltering  as  it  were,  between  the  present  life  and 
the  future,  that  I  approach.  She  knows  me  on  the 
instant,  and  greets  me  kindly  ; — as  Bella  wrote — 
very  kindly.  Yet  she  shows  a  slight  embarrass- 
ment, a  sweet  embarrassment,  that  I  treasure  in  my 
heart,  more  closely  even  than  the  greeting.  I 
change  my  course,  and  travel  with  them ; — now  we 
talk  of  the  old  scenes,  and  two  hours  seem  to  have 
made  with  me  the  difference  of  half  a  lifetime. 

It  is  five  years  since  I  parted  with  her,  never 
hoping  to  meet  again.  She  was  then  a  frail  girl ; 
she  is  now  just  rounding  into  womanhood.  Her 
eyes  are  as  dark  and  deep  as  ever  :  the  lashes  that 
fringe  them,  seem  to  me  even  longer  than  they 
were.  Her  color  is  as  rich,  her  forehead  as  fair,  her 
smile  as  sweet,  as  they  were  before  ; — only  a  little 
tinge  of  sadness  floats  upon  her  eye,  like  the  haze 
upon  a  summer  landscape.  I  grow  bold  to  look 
upon  her,  and  timid  with  looking.  We  talk  of 
Bella : — she  speaks  in  a  soft,  low  voice,  and  the 
shade  of  sadness  on  her  face,  gathers — as  when  a 
summer  mist  obscures  the  sun.  I  talk  in  mono- 
syllables :  I  can  command  no  other.  And  there  is 
a  look  of  sympathy  in  her  eye,  when  I  speak  thus, 
that  binds  my  soul  to  her,  as  no  smiles  could  do. 
What  can  draw  the  heart  into  the  fulness  of  love, 
so  quick  as  sympathy  ? 

But  this  passes ; — we  must  part ;  she  for  her 
home,  and  I  for  that  broad  home,  that  has  been 
mine  so  long — the  world.  It  seems  broader  to  ma 


EVENING.  241 

than  ever,  and  colder  than  ever,  and  less  to  be 
wished  for  than  ever.  A  new  book  of  hope  is 
sprung  wide  open  in  my  life  : a  hope  of  home  ! 

We  are  to  meet  at  some  time,  not  far  off,  in  the 
city  where  I  am  living.  I  look  forward  to  that 
time,  as  at  school  I  used  to  look  for  vacation :  it 
is  a  point  cfappui  for  hope,  for  thought,  and  for 
countless  journeyings  into  the  opening  future. 
Never  did  I  keep  the  dates  better,  never  count  the 
days  more  carefully,  whether  for  bonds  to  be  paid, 
or  for  dividends  to  fall  due. 

I  welcome  the  time,  and  it  passes  like  a  dream. 
I  am  near  her,  often  as  I  dare  ;  the  hours  are  very 
short  with  her,  and  very  long  away.  She  receives 
me  kindly — always  very  kindly  ;  she  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  kind.  But  is  it  anything  more  ? 
This  is  a  greedy  nature  of  ours  ;  and  when  sweet 
kindness  flows  upon  us,  we  want  more.  I  know 
she  is  kind  ;  and  yet  in  place  of  being  grateful,  I 
am  only  covetous  of  an  excess  of  kindness. 

She  does  not  mistake  my  feelings,  surely  : — iah, 
no, — trust  a  woman  for  that !  But  what  have  I,  or 
what  am  I,  to  ask  a  return  ?  She  is  pure,  and 
gentle  as  an  angel ;  and  I — alas — only  a  poor  sol- 
dier in  our  world-fight  against  the  Devil  Some- 
times in  moods  of  vanity,  I  call  up  what  I  fondly 
reckon  my  excellencies  or  deserts — a  sorry,  pitiful 
array,  that  makes  me  shame-faced  when  I  meet  her. 
And  in  an  instant,  I  banish  them  all.  And  I  think, 
that  if  I  were  called  upon  in  some  high  court  of 
justice,  to  say  why  I  should  claim  her  indulgence, 

21 


242  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

or  her  love — I  would  say  nothing  of  r.iy  sturdy 
effort  to  beat  down  the  roughnesses  of  toil — noth- 
ing of  such  manliness  as  wears  a  calm  front  amid 
the  frowns  of  the  world, — nothing  of  little  tri- 
umphs, in  the  every-day  fight  of  life ;  but  only,  I 
would  enter  the  simple  pica — this  heart  is  hers  ! 

She  leaves ;  and  I  have  said  nothing  of  what 
was  seething  within  me ; — how  I  curse  my  folly ! 
She  is  gone,  and  never  perhaps  will  return.  I  recal 
in  despair  her  last  kind  glance.  The  world  seems 
blank  to  me.  She  does  not  know ;  perhaps  she 
does  not  care,  if  I  love  her. — Well,  I  will  bear  it, — 
I  say.  But  I  cannot  bear  it.  Business  is  broken  ; 
boo1-:1*  are  blurred ;  something  remains  undone, 
that  fate  declares  must  be  done.  Not  a  place  can 
I  find,  but  her  sweet  smile  gives  to  it,  either  a 
tinge  of  gladness,  or  a  black  shade  of  desolation. 

I  sit  down  at  my  table  with  pleasant  books ; 
the  fire  is  burning  cheerfully ;  my  dog  looks  up 
earnestly  when  I  speak  to  him ;  but  it  will  never 
do  !  Her  image  sweeps  away  all  these  comforts  in 
a  flood.  I  fling  down  my  book  ;  I  turn  my  back 
upon  my  dog;  the  fire  hisses  and  sparkles  iu 
mockery  of  me. 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashes  on  my  brain; — I 
will  write  to  her — I  say.  And  a  smile  floats  over 
my  face, — a  smile  of  hope,  ending  in  doubt.  I 
catch  up  my  pen — my  trusty  pen ;  and  the  clean 
sheet  lies  before  me.  The  paper  could  not  be  better, 
nor  the  pen.  I  have  written  hundreds  of  letters : 
it  13  easy  to  write  letters.  But  now,  it  is  not  easy. 


EVENING.  243 

I  begin,  and  cross  it  out.  I  begin  again,  and 
get  on  a  little  farther ; — then  cross  it  out.  I  try 
again,  but  can  write  nothing.  I  fling  down  my 
pen  in  despair,  and  burn  the  sheet,  and  go  to  my 
library  for  some  old  sour  treatise  of  Shaftesbury, 
or  Lyttleton ;  and  say — talking  to  myself  all  the 
while ;  let  her  go  1 — She  is  beautiful,  but  I  am 
strong ;  the  world  is  short ;  we — I  and  my  dog, 
and  my  books,  and  my  pen,  .will  battle  it  through 
bravely,  and  leave  enough  for  a  tomb-stone. 

But  even  as  I  say  it,  the  tears  start ; — it  is  all 
false  saying !  And  I  throw  Shaftesbury  across 
the  room,  and  take  up  my  pen  again.  It  glides  on 
and  on,  as  my  hope  glows,  and  I  tell  her  of  our 
first  meeting,  and  of  our  hours  in  the  ocean  twi- 
light, and  of  our  unsteady  stepping  on  the  heaving 
deck,  and  of  that  parting  in  the  noise  of  London, 
and  of  my  joy  at  seeing  her  in  the  pleasant  coun- 
try, and  of  my  grief  afterward.  And  then  I  men- 
tion Bella, — her  friend  and  mine — and  the  tears 
flow ;  and  then  I  speak  of  our  last  meeting,  and 
of  rny  doubts,  and  of  this  very  evening, — and  how 
I  could  not  write,  and  abandoned  it, — and  then  felt 
something  within  me  that  made  me  write,  and  tell 

her all ! "  That  my  heart  was  not  my  own, 

but  was  wholly  hers ;  and  that  if  she  would  be 

mine, 1  would  cherish  her,  and  love  her 

always !  " 

Then,  I  feel  a  kind  of  happiness, — a  strange, 
tumultous  happiness,  into  which  doubt  is  creeping 
from  time  to  time,  bringing  with  it  a  cold  shudder. 


244  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

I  seal  the  letter,  and  carry  it — a  great  weight — for 
the  mail.  It  seems  as  if  there  could  be  no  other 
letter  that  day ;  and  as  if  all  the  coaches  and 
horses,  and  cars,  and  boats  were  specially  detailed 
to  bear  that  single  sheet.  It  is  a  great  letter  for 
me ;  my  destiny  lies  in  it. 

I  do  not  sleep  well  that  night ; — it  is  a  tossing 
sleep,  one  time  joy — sweet  and  holy  joy  comes  to 
my  dreams,  and  an  angel  is  by  me ; — another  time, 
the  angel  fades — the  brightness  fades,  and  I  wake, 
struggling  with  fear.  For  many  nights  it  is  so, 
until  the  day  comes,  on  which  I  am  looking  for  a 
reply. 

The  postman  has  little  suspicion  that  the  letter 
which  he  gives  me — although  it  contains  no  prom- 
issory notes,  nor  moneys,  nor  deeds,  nor  articles  of 
trade — is  yet  to  have  a  greater  influence  upon  my 
life  and  upon  my  future,  than  all  the  letters  he  has 
ever  brought  to  me  before.  But  I  do  not  show 
him  this ;  nor  do  I  let  him  see  the  clutch  with 
which  I  grasp  it.  I  bear  it,  as  if  it  were  a  great 
and  fearful  burden,  to  my  room.  I  lock  the  door, 
and  having  broken  the  seal  with  a  quivering  hand, 
— read : — 

THE    LETTER. 

"  PATH, — for  I  think  I  may  call  you  so  now — I 
know  not  how  to  answer  you.  Your  letter  gave 
me  great  joy  ;  but  it  gave  me  pain  too.  I  cannot 
— will  not  doubt  what  you  say  :  I  believe  that  you 
love  me  better  than  I  deserve  to  be  loved ;  and  I 


EVEXIXG.  245 

know  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  all  your  kind  praises. 
But  it  is  not  this  that  pains  me  ;  for  I  know  that 
you  have  a  generous  heart,  and  would  forgive,  as 
you  always  have  forgiven,  any  weakness  of  mine. 
I  am  proud  too,  very  proud,  to  have  won  your 
love ;  but  it  pains  me — more  perhaps  than  you  will 
believe — to  think  that  I  cannot  write  back  to  you, 
as  I  would  wish  to  write ; — alas,  never !  " 

Here  I  dash  the  letter  upon  the  floor,  and  with 
my  hand  upon  my  forehead,  sit  gazing  upon  the 
glowing  coals,  and  breathing  quick  and  loud. — 
The  dream  then  is  broken  I 

Presently  I  read  again : 

"  You  know  that  my  father  died  before 

we  had  ever  met.  He  had  an  old  friend,  who  had 
come  from  England ;  and  who  in  early  life  had 
done  him  some  great  service,  which  made  him 
seem  like  a  brother.  This  old  gentleman  was  my 
god-father,  and  called  me  daughter.  When  my 
father  died,  he  drew  me  to  his  side,  and  said, — 
'  Carry,  I  shall  leave  yon,  but  my  old  friend  will  be 
your  father ; '  and  he  put  my  hand  in  his,  and  said 
— '  I  give  you  my  daughter.' 

"This  old  gentleman  had  a  son,  older  than 
myself;  but  we  were  much  together,  and  grew  up 
as  brother  and  sister.  I  was  proud  of  him ;  for  he 
was  tall  and  strong,  and  every  one  called  him 
handsome.  He  was  as  kind  too,  as  a  brother 
could  be  ;  and  his  father  was  like  my  own  father. 


246  BMVEBIBS  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Every  one  said,  and  believed,  that  we  would  one 
day  be  married ;  and  my  mother,  and  my  new 
father  spoke  of  it  openly.  So  did  Laurence,  for 
that  is  my  friend's  name. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  any  more,  Paul ;  for 
when  I  was  still  a  girl,  we  had  promised,  that  we 
would  one  day  be  man  and  wife.  Laurence  has 
been  much  in  England  ;  and  I  believe  he  is  there 
now.  The  old  gentleman  treats  me  still  as  a 
daughter,  and  talks  of  the  time,  when  I  shall  come 
and  live  with  him.  The  letters  of  Laurence  are 
very  kind  ;  and  though  he  does  not  talk  so  much 
of  our  marriage  as  he  did,  it  is  only,  I  think, 
because  he  regards  it  as  so  certain. 

"  I  have  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  before ;  but 
I  have  feared  to  tell  you  ;  I  am  afraid  I  have  been 
too  selfish  to  tell  you.  And  now  what  can  I  say  ? 
Laurence  seems  most  to  me  like  a  brother ; — and 

you,  Paul but  I  must  not  go  on.     For  if  I 

marry  Laurence,  as  fate  seems  to  have  decided,  I 
will  try  and  love  him,  better  than  all  the  world. 

"  But  will  you  not  be  a  brother,  and  love  me, 
as  you  once  loved  Bella  ; — you  say  my  eyes  are  like 
hers,  and  that  my  forehead  is  like  hers  ; — will  you 
not  believe  that  my  heart  is  like  hers  too  ? 

"  Paul,  if  you  shed  tears  over  this  letter — I  have 
shed  them  as  well  as  you.  I  can  write  no  more 

now. 

"  Adieu." 

I  sit  long  looking  upon  the  blaze  ;   and  when  I 


E  VEXING.  247 

rouse  myself,  it  is  to  say  wicked  things  against 
destiny.  Again,  all  the  future  seems  very  blank. 
I  eannot  love  Carry,  as  I  loved  Bella ;  she  cannot 
be  a  sister  to  me  ;  she  must  be  more,  or  nothing  ! 
Again,  I  seem  to  float  singly  011  the  tide  of  life, 
and  see  all  around  me  in  cheerful  groups.  Every 
•where  the  sun  shines,  except  upon  my  own  cold 
forehead.  There  seems  no  mercy  in  Heaven,  and 
no  goodness  for  me  upon  Earth. 

I  write  after  some  days,  an  answer  to  the-letter. 
But  it  is  a  bitter  answer,  in  which  I  forget  myself, 
in  the  whirl  of  my  misfortunes — to  the  utterance 
of  reproaches. 

Her  reply,  which  comes  speedily,  is  sweet,  and 
gentle.  She  is  hurt  by  my  reproaches,  deeply 
hurt.  But  with  a  touching  kindness,  of  which  I 
am  not  worthy,  she  credits  all  my  petulance  to  my 
wounded  feeling ;  she  soothes  me  ;  but  in  soothing, 
only  wounds  the  more.  I  try  to  believe  her,  when 
she  speaks  of  her  unworthiness ; — but  I  cannot. 

Business,  and  the  pursuits  of  ambition  or  of- 
interest,  pass  on  like  dull,  grating  machinery. 
Tasks  are  met,  and  performed  with  strength 
indeed,  but  with  no  cheer.  Courage  is  high,  as  I 
meet  the  shocks  and  trials  of  the  world ;  but  it  is 
a  brute,  careless  courage,  that  glories  in  opposition. 
I  laugh  at  any  dangers,  or  any  insidious  pitfalls ; — 
what  are  they  to  me  ?  What  do  I  possess,  which 
it  will  be  hard  to  lose  ?  My  dog  keeps  by  me ; 
my  toils  are  present ;  ray  food  is  ready ;  my  limbs 

are  strong ; what  need  for  more  ? 

£1* 


248  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

The  months  slip  by  ;  and  the  cloud  that  floated 
over  my  evening  sun,  passes. 

Laurence  wandering  abroad,  and  writing  to 
Caroline,  as  to  a  sister, — writes  more  than  his 
father  could  have  wished.  He  has  met  new  faces, 
very  sweet  faces  \  and  one  which  shows  through 
the  ink  of  his  later  letters,  very  gorgeously.  The 
old  gentleman  does  not  like  to  lose  thus  his  little 
Carry ;  and  he  writes  back  rebuke.  But  Laurence, 
with  the  letters  of  Caroline  before  him  for  data, 
throws  himself  upon  his  sister's  kindness,  and 
charity.  It  astonishes  not  a  little  the  old  gentle- 
man, to  find  his  daughter  pleading  in  such  strange 
way,  for  the  son.  "  And  what  will  you  do  then, 
my  Carry  ?  " — the  old  man  says. 

"  Wear  weeds,  if  you  wish,  sir ;   and  love 

you  and  Laurence  more  than  ever  I  " 

And  he  takes  her  to  his  bosom,  and  says — 
"  Carry — Carry,  you  are  too  good  for  that  wild  fel- 
low Laurence  !  " 

-  Now,  the  letters  are  different !  Now  they  are 
full  of  hope — dawning  all  over  the  future  sky. 
Business,  and  care,  and  toil,  glide,  as  if  a  spirit 
animated  them  all ;  it  is  no  longer  cold  machine 
work,  but  intelligent,  and  hopeful  activity.  The 
sky  hangs  upon  you  lovingly,  and  the  birds  make 
music,  that  startles  you  with  its  fineness.  Men 
wear  cheerful  faces ;  the  storms  have  a  kind  pity, 
gleaming  through  all  their  wrath. 

The  days  approach,  when  you  can  call  her 
yours.  For  she  has  said  it,  and  her  mother  haa 


EVENING.  249 

said  it ;  and  the  kind  old  gentleman,  who  says  he 
will  still  be  her  father,  has  said  it  too ;  and  they 
have  all  welcomed  you — won  by  her  story — with  a 
cordiality,  that  has  made  your  cup  full,  to  running 
over.  Only  one  thought  comes  up  to  obscure  your 
joy ; — is  it  real  ?  or  if  real,  are  you  worthy  to  enjoy  ? 
Will  you  cherish  and  love  always,  as  you  have 
promised,  that  angel  who  accepts  your  word,  and 
rests  her  happiness  on  your  faith  ?  Are  there  not 
harsh  qualities  in  your  nature,  which  you  fear  may 
sometime  make  her  regret  that  she  gave  herself  to 
your  love  and  charity  ?  And  those  friends  who 
watch  over  her,  as  the  apple  of  their  eye,  can  you 
always  meet  their  tenderness  and  approval,  for 
your  guardianship  of  their  treasure  ?  Is  it  not  a 
treasure  that  makes  you  fearful,  as  well  as  joyful  ? 

But  you  forget  this  in  her  smile :  her  kindness, 
her  goodness,  her  modesty,  will  not  let  you  remem- 
ber it.  She  forbids  such  thoughts  ;  and  you  yield 
such  obedience,  as  you  never  yielded  even  to  the 
commands  of  a  mother.  And  if  your  business,  and 
your  labor  slip  by,  partially  neglected — what  mat- 
ters it?  What  is  interest,  or  what  is  reputation, 
compared  with  that  fullness  of  your  heart,  which  is 
now  ripe  with  joy  ? 

The  day  for  your  maarriage  comes ;  and  you  live 
as  if  you  were  in  a  dream.  You  think  well,  and 
hope  well  for  all  the  world.  A  flood  of  charity 
seems  to  radiate  from  all  around  you.  And  as 
you  sit  beside  her  in  the  twilight,  on  the  evening 
before  the  day,  when  you  will  call  her  yours,  ant) 


250  £Cl'£Rf£S  OF  A  BACHELOR 

talk  of  the  coming  hopes,  and  of  the  soft  shadows 
of  the  past ;  and  whisper  of  Bella's  love,  and  of 
that  sweet  sister's  death,  and  of  Laurence,  a  new 
brother,  coming  home  joyful  with  his  bride, — and 
lay  your  cheek  to  hers — life  seems  as  if  it  were  all 
day,  and  as  if  there  could  be  no  night ! 

The  marriage  passes ;  and  she  is  yours, — yours 
forever. 

NEW    TRAVEL. 

AGAIN  I  am  upon  the  sea  ;  but  not  alone.  She 
whom  I  first  met  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  is  there 
beside  .me.  Again  I  steady  her  tottering  step  upon 
the  deck  ;  once  it  was  a  drifting,  careless  pleasure  ; 
now  the  pleasure  is  holy. 

Once  the  fear  I  felt,  as  the  storms  gathered,  and 
night  came,  and  the  ship  tossed  madly,  and  great 
Waves  gathering  swift  and  high,  came  down  like 
slipping  mountains,  and  spent  their  force  upon  the 
quivering  vessel,  was  a  selfish  fear.  But  it  is  so  no 
longer.  Indeed  I  hardly  know  fear ;  for  how  can 
the  tempests  harm  her?  Is  she  not  too  good  to 
suffer  any  of  the  wrath  of  heaven  ? 

And  in  nights  of  calm, — holy  nights,  we  lean 
over  the  ship's  side,  looking  down,  as  once  before, 
into  the  dark  depths,  and  murmur  again  snatches 
of  ocean  song,  and  talk  of  those  we  love  ;  and  we 
peer  among  the  stars,  which  seem  neighborly,  and 
as  if  they  were  the  homes  of  friends.  And  as  the 
great  ocean-swells  come  rocking  under  us,  and 
carry  us  up  and  down  along  the  valleys  and  the 


EVENING.  251 

hills  of  water,  they  seem  like  deep  pulsations  of 
the  great  heart  of  nature,  heaving  us  forward  to- 
ward the  goal  of  life,  and  to  the  gates  of  heaven  ! 

We  watch  the  ships  as  they  come  upon  the 
horizon,  and  sweep  toward  us,  like  false  friends, 
with  the  sun  glittering  on  their  sails ;  and  then 
shift  their  course,  and  bear  away — with  their 
bright  sails,  turned  to  spots  of  shadow.  We  watch 
the  long  winged  birds  skimming  the  waves  hour 
after  hour, — like  pleasant  thoughts — now  dashing 
before  our  bows,  and  then  sweeping  behind,  until 
they  are  lost  in  the  hollows  of  the  water. 

Again  life  lies  open,  as  it  did  once  before ;  but 
the  regrets,  disappointments,  and  fruitless  resolves 
do  not  come  to  trouble  me  now.  It  is  the  future, 
which  has  become  as  level  as  the  sea ;  and  she  is 
beside  me, — the  sharer  in  that  future — to  look  out 
with  me,  upon  the  joyous  sparkle  of  water,  and  to 
count  with  me,  the  dazzling  ripples,  that  lie 
between  us  and  the  shore.  A  thousand  pleasant 
plans  come  up,  and  are  abandoned,  like  the  waves 
we  leave  behind  us ;  a  thousand  other  joyous 
plans,  dawn  upon  our  fancy,  like  the  waves  that 
glitter  before  us.  We  talk  of  Laurence  and  his 
bride,  whom  we  are  to  meet ;  we  talk  of  her 
mother,  who  is  even  now  watching  the  winds  that 
waft  her  child  over  the  ocean ;  we  talk  of  the 
kindly  old  man,  her  god-father,  who  gave  her  a 
father's  blessing  ;  we  talk  low,  and  in  the  twilight 
hours,  of  Isabel — who  sleeps. 

At  length,  as  the  sun  goes  down  upon  a  fair 


252  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

night,  over  the  western  waters  which  we  have 
passed,  we  see  before  us,  the  low  blue  line  of  the 
shores  of  Cornwall  and  Devon.  In  the  night, 
shadowy  ships  glide  past  us  with  gleaming  lan- 
terns ;  and  in  the  morning,  we  see  the  yellow  cliffs 
of  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  and  standing  out  from  the 
land,  is  the  dingy  sail  of  our  pilot.  London  with 
its  fog,  roar,  and  crowds,  has  not  the  same  charms 
that  it  once  had  ;  that  roar  and  crowd  is  good  to 
make  a  man  forget  his  griefs — forget  himself,  and 
stupefy  him  with  amazement.  We  are  in  no  need 
of  such  forgetfulness. 

We  roll  along  the  banks  of  the  sylvan  river  that 
glides  by  Hampton  Court ;  and  we  toil  up  Rich- 
mond hill,  to  look  together  upon  that  scene  of 
water,  and  meadow, — of  leafy  copses,  and  glisten- 
ing villas,  of  brown  cottages,  and  clustered  ham- 
lets,— of  solitary  oaks,  and  loitering  herds — all 
spread  like  a  veil  of  beauty,  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
Thames.  But  we  cannot  linger  here,  nor  even 
under  the  glorious  old  boles  of  Windsor  Forest ; 
but  we  hurry  on  to  that  sweet  county  of  Devon, 
made  green  with  its  white  skeins  of  water. 

Again  we  loiter  under  the  oaks,  where  we  have 
loitered  before ;  and  the  sleek  deer  gaze  on  us  with 
their  liquid  eyes,  as  they  gazed  before.  The  squir- 
rels sport  among  the  boughs  as  fearless  as  ever; 
and  some  wandering  puss  pricks  her  long  ears  at 
our  steps,  and  bounds  off  along  the  hedge  rows  to 
her  burrow.  Again  I  see  Carry  in  her  velvet  rid- 
ing-cap, with  the  white  plume  ;  and  I  meet  her  as 


EVENING.  253 

I  met  her  before,  under  the  princely  trees  that 
skirt  the  northern  avenue.  I  recal  the  evening 
when  I  sauntered  out  at  the  park  gates,  and  gained 
a  blessing  from  the  porter's  wife,  and  dreamed 

that  strange    dream ; now,   the    dream  seems 

more  real,  than  my  life. — "  God  bless  you  !  " — said 
the  woman  again. 

— "  Aye,  old  lady,  God  has  blessed  me  !  " — and 
I  fling  her  a  guinea,  not  as  a  gift,  but  as  a  debt. 

The  bland  farmer  lives  yet ;  he  scarce  knows 
me,  until  I  tell  him  of  my  bout  around  his  oat-field, 
at  the  tail  of  his  long  stilted  plough.  I  find  the 
old  pew  in  the  parish  church.  Other  holly  sprigs 
are  hung  now ;  and  I  do  not  doze,  for  Carry  is 
beside  me.  The  curate  drawls  the  service ;  but 
it  is  pleasant  to  listen  ;  and  I  make  the  responses 
with  an  emphasis,  that  tells  more  I  fear,  for  my 
joy,  than  for  my  religion.  The  old  groom  at  the 
mansion  in  the  Park,  has  not  forgotten  the  hard- 
riding  of  other  days ;  and  tells  long  stories  (to 
which  I  love  to  listen)  of  the  old  visit  of  mistress 
Carry,  when  she  followed  the  hounds  with  the  best 
of  the  English  lasses. 

— "  Yer  honor  may  well  be  proud ;  for  not  a 
prettier  face,  or  a  kinder  heart  has  been  in  Devon, 
gince  mistress  Carry  left  us  !  " 

But  pleasant  as  are  the  old  woods,  full  of  mem- 
ories, and  pleasant  as  are  the  twilight  evenings 
upon  the  terrace — we  must  pass  over  to  the  moun- 
tains of  Switzerland.  There  we  are  to  nu:ct 
Laurence. 

22 


254  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Carry  has  never  seen  the  magnificence  of  the 
Juras ;  and  as  we  journey  over  the  hills  between 
Dole,  and  the  border  line,  looking  upon  the  rolling 
heights  shrouded  with  pine  trees,  and  down  thou- 
sands of  feet,  at  the  very  road  side,  upon  the  cot- 
tage roofs,  and  emerald  valleys,  where  the  dun 
herds  are  feeding  quietly,  she  is  lost  in  admiration. 
At  length  we  come  to  that  point  above  the  little 
town  of  Gex,  from  which  you  see  spread  out  before 
you,  the  meadows  that  skirt  Geneva,  the  placid 
surface  of  Lake  Leman,  and  the  rough,  shaggy 
mountains  of  Savoy ; — and  far  behind  them,  break- 
ing the  horizon  with  snowy  cap,  and  with  dark 
pinnacles — Mont  Blanc,  and  the  Needles  of  Cha- 
mouni. 

I  point  out  to  her  in  the  valley  below,  the  little 
town  of  Feruey,  where  stands  the  deserted  chateau 
of  Voltaire ;  and  beyond,  upon  the  shores  of  the 
lake,  the  old  home  of  de  Stael ;  and  across,  with 
its  white  walla  reflected  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
water,  the  house  where  Byron  wrote  the  Prisoner 
of  Chillon.  Among  the  grouping  roofs  of  Geneva, 
we  trace  the  dark  cathedral,  and  the  tall  hotels 
shining  on  the  edge  of  the  lake.  And  I  tell  of  the 
time,  when  I  tramped  down  through  yonder  valley, 
with  my  future  all  visionary,  and  broken,  and 
•  drank  the  splendor  of  the  scene,  only  as  a  quick 
relief  to  the  monotony  of  my  solitary  life. 

"  And  now,  Carry,  with  your  hand  locked 

in  mine,  and  your  heart  mine — yonder  lake  sleep- 
ing in  the  sun,  and  the  snowy  mountains  with 


EVE  NINO.  255 

their  rosy  hue  seem  like  the  smile  of  nature,  bid- 
ding us  be  glad  !  " 

Laurence  is  at  Geneva ;  he  welcomes  Carry,  as 
he  would  welcome  a  sister.  He  is  a  noble  fellow, 
and  tells  me  much  of  his  sweet  Italian  wife  ;  and 

presents  me  to  the  smiling,  blushing Enrica  ! 

She  has  learned  English  now ;  she  has  found,  she 
says,  a  better  teacher,  than  ever  I  was.  Yet  she 
welcomes  me  warmly,  as  a  sister  might ;  and  we 
talk  of  those  old  evenings  by  the  blazing  fire,  and 
of  the  one-eyed  Maestro,  as  children  long  separated, 
might  talk  of  their  school  tasks,  and  of  their 
teachers.  She  cannot  tell  me  enough  of  her  praises 
of  Laurence,  and  of  his  noble  heart. — "  You  were 
good," — she  says, — "  but  Laurence  is  better." 

Carry  admires  her  soft  brown  hair,  and  her 
deep  liquid  eye,  and  wonders  how  I  could  ever 
have  left  Rome  ? 

Do  you  indeed  wonder — Carry  ? 

And  together  we  go  down  into  Savoy,  to  that 
marvellous  valley,  which  lies  under  the  shoulder  of 
Mont  Blanc ;  and  we  wander  over  the  Mer  de 
Glafe,  and  pick  Alpine  roses  from  the  edge  of  the 
frowning  glacier.  We  toil  at  night-fall  up  to  the 
monastery  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard,  where  the 
new  forming  ice  crackles  in  the  narrow  foot-way, 
and  the  cold  moon  glistens  over  the  wastes  of 
snow,  and  upon  the  windows  of  the  dark  Hospice. 
Again,  we  are  among  the  granite  heights,  whose 
ledges  are  filled  with  ice,  upon  the  Grimsel.  The 
pond  is  dark  and  cold  ;  the  paths  are  slippery  ;— 


256  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

the  great  glacier  of  the  Aar  sends  down  icy 
breezes,  and  the  echoes  ring  from  rock  to  rock,  as 
if  the  ice-God  answered.  And  yet  we  neither 
suffer,  nor  fear. 

In  the  sweet  valley  of  Meyrir.gen,  we  part  from 
Laurence :  he  goes  northward,  by  Grindemvald, 
and  Thun, — thence  to  journey  westward,  and  to 
make  for  the  Roman  girl,  a  home  beyond  the 
ocean.  Enrica  bids  me  go  on  to  Rome :  she  knows 
that  Carry  will  love  its  soft  warm  air,  its  ruins,  us 
pictures  and  temples,  better  than  these  cold  v::lir  a 
of  Switzerland.  And  she  gives  me  kind  messages 
for  her  mother,  and  for  Cesare  ;  and  should  we  be 
in  Rome  at  the  Easter  season,  she  bids  us  remember 
her,  when  we  listen  to  the  Miserere,  and  when  we 
see  the  great  Chiesa  on  fire,  and  when  we  saunter 

upon  the  Piucian  hill ; and  remember,  that  it  is 

her  home. 

"We  follow  them  with  our  eyes,  as  they  go  up 
the  steep  heights  over  which  falls  the  white  foam 
of  the  clattering  Reichenbach ;  and  they  wave 
their  hands  toward  us,  and  disappear  upon  the 
little  plateau  which  stretches  toward  the  crystal 
Rosenlaui,  and  the  tall,  still,  Engel-Horner. 

May  the  mountain  angels  guard  them  ! 

As  we  journey  on  toward  that  wonderful  pass 
of  Splugen,  I  recal  by  the  way,  upon  the  heights, 
and  in  the  valleys,  the  spots  where  I  lingered  years 
before ; — here,  I  plucked  a  flower,  there,  I  drank 
from  that  cold,  yellow  glacier  water ;  and  here, 
upon  some  rock  overlooking  a  stretch  of  broken 


EVENING.  257 

mountains,  hoary  with  their  eternal  frosts,  I  sat 
musing  upon  that  very  Future,  which  is  with  me 
now.  But  never,  even  when  the  ice-genii  were 
most  prodigal  of  their  fancies  to  the  wanderer,  did 
I  look  for  more  joy,  or  a  better  angel. 

Afterward,  when  all  our  trembling  upon  the 
Alpine  paths  has  gone  by,  we  are  rolling  along 
under  the  chestnuts  and  lindens  that  skirt  the 
bunks  of  Como.  We  recal  that  sweet  story  of 
Manzoni,  and  I  point  out,  as  well  as  I  may,  the 
loitering  place  of  the  bravi,  and  the  track  of  poor 
Don  Abbondio.  We  follow  in  the  path  of  the  dis- 
comfited Renzi,  to  where  the  dainty  spire,  and 
pinnacles  of  the  Duomo  of  Milan,  glisten  against 
the  violet  sky. 

Carry  longs  to  see  Venice ;  its  water-streets,  and 
palaces  have  long  floated  in  her  visions.  In  the 
bustling  activity  of  our  own  country,  and  in  the 
quiet  fields  of  England,  that  strange,  half-deserted 
capital,  lying  in  the  Adriatic,  has  taken  the 
strongest  hold  upon  her  fancy. 

So  we  leave  Padua,  and  Verona  behind  us,  and 
find  ourselves  upon  a  soft  spring  noon,  upon  the 
end  of  the  iron  road  which  stretches  across  the 
lagoon,  toward  Venice.  With  the  hissing  of  steam 
in  the  ear,  it  is  hard  to  think  of  the  wonderful  city, 
we  are  approaching.  But  as  we  escape  from  the 
carriage,  and  set  our  feet  down  in  one  of  those 
strange,  hearse-like,  ancient  boats,  with  its  sharp 
iron  prow,  and  listen  to  the  melodious  rolling 
tongue  of  the  Venetian  gondolier : — as  we  see 
22* 


258  BFTERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

rising  over  the  watery  plain  before  us,  all  glitter- 
ing in  the  sun,  tall,  square  towers  with  pyramidal 
tops,  and  clustered  domes,  and  minarets ;  and 
sparkling  roofs  lifting  from  marble  walls — all  so 
like  the  old  paintings ; — and  as  we  glide  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  floating  wonder,  under  the  silent 
working  oar,  of  our  now  silent  gondolier ; — as  we 
ride  up  swiftly  under  the  deep,  broad  shadows  of 
palaces,  and  see  plainly  the  play  of  the  sea-water 
in  the  crevices  of  the  masonry, — and  turn  into  nar- 
row rivers  shaded  darkly  by  overhanging  walls, 
hearing  no  sound,  but  of  voices,  or  the  swaying  of 
the  water  against  the  houses, — we  feel  the  presence 
of  the  place.  And  the  mystic  fingers  of  the  Past, 
grappling  our  spirits,  lead  them  away — willing  and 
rejoicing  captives,  through  the  long  vista  of  the 
ages,  that  are  gone. 

Carry  is  in  a  trance  ; — rapt  by  the  witchery  of 
the  scene,  into  dream.  This  is  her  Venice ;  nor 
have  all  the  visions  that  played  upon  her  fancy, 
been  equal  to  the  enchanting  presence  of  this  hour 
of  approach. 

Afterward,  it  becomes  a  living  thing, — stealing 
upon  the  affections,  and  upon  the  imagination  by 
a  thousand  coy  advances.  We  wander  under  the 
warm  Italian  sunlight  to  the  steps  from  which 
rolled  the  white  head  of  poor  Marino  Faliero.  The 
gentle  Carry  can  now  thrust  her  ungloved  hand, 
into  the  terrible  Lion's  mouth.  "We  enter  the 
salon  of  the  fearful  Ten ;  and  peep  through  the 
half  opened  door,  into  the  cabinet  of  the  more 


EVENING.  259 

fearful  Three.  "We  go  through  the  deep  dungeons 
of  Carmagnola  and  of  Carrara ;  and  we  instruct  the 
willing  gondolier  to  push  his  dark  boat  under  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs ;  and  with  Rogers'  poem  in  our 
hand,  glide  up  to  the  prison  door,  and  read  of — 

—  That  fearful  closet  at  the  foot 
Lurking  for  prey,  which,  -when  a  victim  came, 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span 
An  iron  door,  urged  oil  ward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life  I 

I  sail,  listening  to  nothing  but  the  dip  of  the 
gondolier's  oar,  or  to  her  gentle  words,  fast  under 
the  palace  door,  which  closed  that  fearful  morning, 
on  the  guilt  and  shame  of  Bianca  Capello.  Or, 
with  souls  lit  up  by  the  scene,  into  a  buoyancy  that 
can  scarce  distinguish  between  what  is  real,  and 
what  is  merely  written, — we  chase  the  anxious  step 
of  the  forsaken  Corinna ;  or  seek  among  the  veteran 
palaces  the  casement  of  the  old  Brabantio, — the 
chamber  of  Desdemona, — the  house  of  Jessica,  and 
trace  among  the  strange  Jew  money-changers,  who 
yet  haunt  the  Rialto,  the  likeness  of  the  bearded 
Shylock.  We  wander  into  stately  churches,  brush- 
ing over  grass,  or  tell-tale  flowers  that  grow  in  the 
court,  and  find  them  damp  and  cheerless ;  the 
incense  rises  murkily,  and  rests  in  a  thick  cloud 
over  the  altars,  and  over  the  paintings  ;  the  music, 
if  so  be  that  the  organ  notes  are  swelling  under 
the  roof,  is  mournfully  plaintive. 

Of  an  afternoon  we  sail  over  to  the  Lido,  to  glad- 
flen  our  eyes  with  a  sight  of  laud  and  green  tilings, 


260  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

and  we  pass  none  upon  the  "way,  save  silent  oars- 
men,  with  barges  piled  high  with  the  produce  of 
their  gardens, — pushing  their  way  down  toward 
the  floating  city.  And  upon  the  narrow  island,  we 
find  Jewish  graves,  half  covered  by  drifted  sand  ; 
and  from  among  them,  watch  the  sunset  glimmer- 
ing over  a  desolate  level  of  water.  As  we  glide 
back,  lights  lift  over  the  Lagoon,  and  double  along 
the  Guideca,  and  the  Grand  Canal.  The  little 
neighbor  isles  will  have  their  company  of  lights 
dancing  in  the  water  ;  and  from  among  them,  will 
rise  up  against  the  mellow  evening  sky  of  Italy, 
gaunt,  unlighted  houses. 

After  the  nightfall,  which  brings  no  harmful 
dew  with  it,  I  stroll,  with  her  hand  within'my  arm, 
— as  once  upon  the  sea,  and  in  the  English  Park, 
and  in  the  home-land — over  that  great  square 
which  lies  before  the  palace  of  St.  Marks.  The 
white  moon  is  riding  in  the  middle  heaven,  like  a 
globe  of  silver ;  the  gondoliers  stride  over  the 
echoing  stones ;  and  their  long  black  shadows, 
stretching  over  the  pavement,  or  shaking  upon  the 
moving  water,  seem  like  great  funereal  plumes, 
waving  over  the  bier  of  Venice. 

Carrying  thence  whole  treasures  of  thought  and 
fancy,  to  feed  upon  hi  the  after  years,  we  wander 
to  Rome. 

I  find  the  old  one-eyed  maestro,  and  am  met 
with  cordial  welcome  by  the  mother  of  the  pretty 
Enrica.  The  Count  has  gone  to  the  marches  of 
Ancona.  Lame  Pietro  still  shuffles  around  the 


EVENING.  261 

boards  at  the  Lepr6,  and  the  flower  sellers  at  the 
corner,  bind  me  a  more  brilliant  bouquet  than  ever, 
for  a  new  beauty  at  Rome.  As  we  ramble  under 
the  broken  arches  of  the  great  aqueduct  stretching 
toward  Frascati,  I  tell  Carry,  the  story  of  my  trip 
in  the  Apennines ;  and  we  search  for  the  pretty 
Carlo tta.  But  she  is  married,  they  tell  us,  to  a 
Neapolitan  guardsman.  In  the  spring  twilight,  we 
wander  upon  those  heights  which  lie  between 
Frascati  and  Albano  ;  and  looking  westward,  see 
that  glorious  view  of  the  Campagna  which  can 
never  be  forgotten.  But  beyond  the  Campagna, 
and  beyond  the  huge  hulk  of  St.  Peter's,  heaving 
into  the  sky  from  the  middle  waste,  we  see,  or 
fancy  we  see,  a  glimpse  of  the  sea  which  stretches 
out  and  on  to  the  land  we  love,  better  than  Rome. 
And  in  fancy,  we  build  up  that  home,  which  shall 
belong  to  us,  on  the  return ; — a  home,  that  has 
slumbered  long  in  the  future ;  and  which,  now  that 
the  future  has  come,  lies  fairly  before  me. 

HOME. 

YEARS  seem  to  have  passed.  They  have  mel- 
lowed life  into  ripeness.  The  start,  and  change, 
and  hot  ambition  of  youth,  seem  to  have  gone  by. 
A  calm,  and  joyful  quietude  has  succeeded.  That 
future  which  still  lies  before  me,  seems  like  a 
roseate  twilight,  sinking  into  a  peaceful,  and  silent 
night. 

My  home  is  a  cottage,  near  that  where  Isabel 


2G2  Jl£l'£Ii'I£S  OF  A  .BACHELOR 

once  lived.  The  same  valley  is  around  me ;  the 
same  brook  rustles  and  loiters  under  the  gnarled 
roots  of  the  overhanging  trees.  The  cottage  is  no 
mock  cottage,  but  a  substantial,  wide  spreading 
cottage,  with  clustering  gables,  and  ample  shade  ; 
— such  a  cottage  as  they  build  upon  the  slopes  of 
Devon.  Vines  clamber  over  it,  and  the  stones 
show  mossy  through  the  interlacing  climbers. 
There  are  low  porches,  with  cozy  arm  chairs  ;  and 
generous  oriels,  fragrant  with  mignonette,  and  the 
blue  blossoming  violets. 

The  chimney  stacks  rise  high,  and  show  clear 
against  the  heavy  pine  trees,  that  ward  off  the 
blasts  of  winter.  The  dovecote  is  a  habited  dove- 
cote, and  the  purple-necked  pigeons  swoop  around 
the  roofs,  in  great  companies.  The  hawthorn  is 
budding  into  its  June  fragrance  along  all  the  lines 
of  fence ;  and  the  paths  are  trim,  and  clean.  The 
shrubs, — our  neglected  azalias  and  rhododendrons 
chiefest  among  them, — stand  in  picturesque  groups 
upon  the  close  shaven  lawn. 

The  gateway  in  the  thicket  below,  is  between 
two  mossy  old  posts  of  stone ;  and  there  is  a  tall 
hemlock  flanked  by  a  sturdy  pine,  for  sentinel. 
Within  the  cottage,  the  library  is  wainscotted  with 
native  oak  ;  and  my  trusty  gun  hangs  upon  a 
branching  pair  of  antlers.  My  rod  and  nets  are 
disposed  above  the  generous  book-shelves ;  and  a 
stout  eagle,  once  a  tenant  of  the  native  woods,  sits 
perched  over  the  central  alcove.  An  old  fashioned 
mantel  is  above  the  brown  stone  jams  of  the  couii- 


EVENING.  2G3 

try  fire-place  ;  and  along  it  are  distributed  records 
of  travel ; — little  bronze  temples  from  Rome,  the 
pietro  duro  of  Florence,  the  porcelain  busts  of  Dres- 
den, the  rich  iron  of  Berlin,  and  a  cup  fashioned 
from  a  stag's  horn,  from  the  Black  Forest  by  the 
Rhine. 

Massive  chairs  stand  here  and  there,  in  tempt- 
ing attitude  ;  strewed  over  an  oaken  table  in  the 
middle,  are  the  uncut  papers,  and  volumes  of  the 
day ;  and  upon  a  lion's  skin  stretched  before  the 
hearth,  is  lying  another  Tray. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  are  children  in  the 
cottage.  There  is  Jamie — we  think  him  handsome 
— for  he  has  the  dark  hair  of  his  mother, — and  the 
same  black  eye,  with  its  long,  heavy  fringe.  There 
is  Carry — little  Carry  I  must  call  her  now — with  a 
face  full  of  glee,  and  rosy  with  health  ;  then  there 
is  a  little  rogue  some  two  years  old,  whom  we  call 
Paul — a  very  bad  boy, — as  we  tell  him. 

The  mother  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  far  more 
dear  to  me ;  for  gratitude  has  been  adding,  year 
by  year,  to  love.  There  have  been  times  when  a 
harsh  word  of  mine,  uttered  in  the  fatigues  of 
business,  has  touched  her ;  and  I  have  seen  that 
soft  eye  fill  with  tears ;  and  I  have  upbraided  my- 
self for  causing  her  one  pang.  But  such  things 
she  does  not  remember ;  or  remembers,  only  to 
cover  with  her  gentle  forgiveness. 

Laurence  and  Enrica  are  living  near  us.  And 
the  old  gentleman,  who  was  Carry's  god-father,  sits 
with  me,  on  sunny  days  upon  the  porch,  and  takes 


2G4  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

little  Paul  upon  his  knee,  and  wonders  if  two  such 
daughters  as  Enrica  and  Carry  are  to  be  found  in 
the  world.  At  twilight,  we  ride  over  to  see  Lau- 
rence ;  Jamie  mounts  with  the  coachman ;  little 
Carry  puts  on  her  wide-rimmed  Leghorn  for  the 
evening  visit ;  and  the  old  gentleman's  plea  for 
Paul,  cannot  be  denied.  The  mother  too  is  with 
us ;  and  old  Tray  comes  whisking  along,  now 
frolicking  before  the  horses'  heads,  and  then 
bounding  off  after  the  flight  of  some  belated 
bird. 

Away  from  that  cottage  home,  I  seem  away 
from  life.  Within  it,  that  broad,  and  shadowy 
future,  which  lay  before  me  in  boyhood  and  in 
youth,  is  garnered, — liKe  a  fine  mist,  gathered  into 
drops  of  crystal. 

And  when  away — those  long  letters,  dating 
from  the  cottage  home,  are  what  tie  me  to  life. 
That  cherished  wife,  far  dearer  to  me  now,  than 
when  she  wrote  that  first  letter,  which  seemed  a 
dark  veil  between  me  and  the  future — writes  me 
now,  as  tenderly  as  then.  She  narrates,  in  her 
delicate  way,  all  the  incidents  of  the  home  life ; 
she  tells  me  of  their  rides,  and  of  their  games,  and 
of  the  new  planted  trees  ; — of  all  their  sunny  days, 
and  of  their  frolics  on  the  lawn  ;  she  tells  me  how 
Jamie  is  studying,  and  of  little  Carry's  beauty, 
growing  every  day,  and  of  rogueish  Paul — so  like 
iiis  father  !  And  she  sends  me  a  kiss  from  each  of 
them  ;  and  bids  me  such  adieu,  and  such  '  God'f 
blessing,'  that  it  seems  as  if  an  angel  guarded  me. 


EVENING.  265 

But  this  is  not.  all ;  for  Jamie  has  written  a 
postscript : 

— "Dear  Father,"  he  says,  "mother  wishes 
me  to  tell  you  how  I  am  studying.  What  would 
you  think,  father,  to  have  me  talk  in  French  to 
you,  when  you  come  back  ?  I  wish  you  would 
come  back  though ;  the  hawthorns  are  coming 
out,  and  the  apricot  under  my  window  is  all  full 
of  blossoms.  If  you  should  bring  me  a  present,  as 
you  almost  always  do, — I  would  like  a  fishing  rod. 
"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  JAMIE." 

And  little  Carry  has  her  fine,  rambling  charac 
ters  running  into  a  second  postscript. 

"  Why  don't  you  come,  papa ;  you  stay  too 
long  ;  I  have  ridden  the  pony  twice  ;  once  he  most 
tkrc\v  me  off.  This  is  all  from  CARRY." 

And  Paul  has  taken  the  pen  too,  and  in  his 
extraordinary  effort  to  make  a  big  P,  has  made  a 
very  big  blot.  And  Jamie  writes  under  it — "  This 
is  Paul's  work,  Pa ;  but  he  says  it's  a  love  blot, 
only  he  loves  you  ten  hundred  times  more." 

And  after  your  return,  Jamie  will  insist  that  you 
should  go  with  him  to  the  brook,  and  sit  down 
with  him  upon  a  tuft  of  the  brake,  to  fling  off  a 
line  into  the  eddies,  though  only  the  nibbling 
roach  are  sporting  below.  You  have  instructed 
the  workmen  to  spare  the  clumps  of  bank  willows, 
23 


2t>6  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

that  the  wood-duck  may  have  a  covert  in  winter, 
and  that  the  Bob-o'-Lincolns  may  have  a  quiet 
nesting  place  in  the  spring. 

Sometimes  your  wife, — too  kind  to  deny  such 
favor — will  stroll  with  you  along  the  meadow 
banks,  and  you  pick  meadow  daisies  in  memory  of 
the  old  time.  Little  Carry  weaves  them  into  rude 
chaplets,  to  dress  the  forehead  of  Paul,  and  they 
dance  along  the  greensward,  and  switch  off  the 
daffodils,  and  blow  away  the  dandelion  seeds,  to 
see  if  their  wishes  are  to  come  true.  Jamie  holds 
a  butter  cup  under  Carry's  chin,  to  find  if  she  loves 
gold ;  and  Paul,  the  rogue,  teases  them,  by  stick- 
ing a  thistle  into  sister's  curls. 

The  pony  has  hard  work  to  do  under  Carry's 
swift  riding — but  he  is  fed  by  her  own  hand,  with 
the  cold  breakfast  rolls.  The  nuts  are  gathered  in 
rime,  and  stored  for  long  winter  evenings,  when 
jhe  fire  is  burning  bright  and  cheerily— a  true, 
jiickoi-y  blaze, — which  sends  its  waving  gleams 
over  eager  smiling  faces,  and  over  well-stored  book 
shelves,  and  portraits  of  dear,  lost  ones.  While 
from  time  to  time,  that  wife,  who  is  the  soul  of  the 
scene,  will  break  upon  the  children's  prattle,  with 
the  silver  melody  of  her  voice,  running  softly  and 
sweetly  through  the  couplets  of  Crabbe's  stories,  or 
ihe  witchery  of  the  Flodden  Tale. 

Then  the  boys  will  guess  conundrums,  and  play 
tit  fox  and  geese ;  and  Tray,  cherished  in  his  age, 
and  old  Milo  petted  in  his  dotarre,  !><'  si(V»  by  sid<.', 
upon  the  lion's  skin,  before  the  blazing'  hearth. 


E  VEXING.  2GT 

Little  Tomtit  the  goldfinch  sits  sleeping  on  his 
perch,  or  cocks  his  eye  at  a  sudden  crackling  of  the 
fire,  for  a  familiar  squint  upon  our  family  group. 

But  there  is  no  future  without  its  straggling 
clouds.  Even  now  a  shadow  is  trailing  along  the 
landscape. 

It  is  a  soft  and  mild  day  of  summer.  The 
leaves  are  at  their  fullest.  A  southern  breeze  has 
been  blowing  up  the  valley  all  the  morning,  and 
the  light,  smoky  haze  hangs  in  the  distant  moun- 
tain gaps,  like  a  veil  on  beauty.  Jamie  has  been 
busy  with  his  lessons,  and  afterward  playing  with 
Milo  upon  the  lawn.  Little  Carry  has  come  in 
from'a  long  ride — her  face  blooming,  and  her  eyes 
all  smiles,  and  joy.  The  mother  has  busied  herself 
with  those  flowers  she  loves  so  well.  Little  Paul, 
they  say,  has  been  playing  in  the  meadow,  and  old 
Tray  has  gone  with  him. 

But  at  dinner  time,  Paul  has  not  come  back. 

"  Paul  ought  not  to  ramble  off  so  far,"  I  say. 

The  mother  says  nothing ;  but  there  is  a  look 
of  anxiety  upon  her  face,  that  disturbs  me.  Jamie 
wonders  where  Paul  can  be,  and  he  saves  for  him 
whatever  he  knows  Paul  will  like — a  heaping 
platefull.  But  the  dinner  hour  passes,  and  Paul 
does  not  come.  Old  Tray  lies  in  the  sunshine  by 
the  porch. 

Now  the  mother  is  indeed  anxious.  And  I, 
though  I  conceal  this  from  her,  find  my  fears 
strangely  active.  Something  like  instinct  guides 


268  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

me  to  the  meadow  :  I  wander  down  the  brook-side 
calling — Paul ! — Paul !  But  there  is  no  answer. 

All  the  afternoon  we  search,  and  the  neighbors 
search  ;  but  it  is  a  fruitless  toil.  There-  is  no  joy 
that  evening :  the  meal  passes  in  silence ;  only 
little  Carry  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  asks, — if  Paul 
will  soon  come  back  ?  All  the  night  we  search 
and  call : — the  mother  even  braving  the  night  air, 
and  running  here  and  there,  until  the  morning 
finds  us  sad,  and  despairing. 

That  day — the  next — cleared  up  the  mystery  ; 
but  cleared  it  up  with  darkness.  Poor  little  Paul ! 
— he  has  sunk  under  the  murderous  eddies  of  the 
brook  ?  His  boyish  prattle,  his  rosy  smiles,  his 
artless  talk  are  lost  to  us  forever  ! 

I  will  not  tell  how  nor  when  we  found  him : 
nor  will  I  tell  of  our  desolate  home,  and  of  her  grief 
— the  first  crushing  grief  of  her  life. 

The  cottage  is  still.  The  servants  glide  noise- 
less, as  if  they  might  startle  the  poor  little  sleeper. 
The  house  seems  cold — very  cold.  Yet  it  is  sum- 
mer weather ;  and  the  south  breeze  plays  softly 
along  the  meadow,  and  softly  over  the  murderous 
eddies  of  the  brook. 

Then  comes  the  hush  of  burial.  The  kind 

mourners  are  there , it  is  easy  for  them  to 

mourn  !  The  good  clergyman  prays  by  the  bier : 

'  Oh,  Thou,  who  did'st  take  upon  thyselt 

human  woe,  and  drank  deep  of  every  pang  in  life, 
let  thy  spirit  come  and  heal  this  grief,  and  guide 


Ei'ENING.  269 

toward  that  Better  Land,  where  justice  and  love 
shall  reign,  and  hearts  laden  with  anguish,  shall 
rest  forevermore  i ' 

Weeks  roll  on  ;  and  a  smile  of  resignation  lights 
up  the  saddened  features  of  the  mother.  Those 
dark  mourning  robes  speak  to  the  heart  deeper, 
and  more  tenderly,  than  ever  the  bridal  costume. 
She  lightens  the  weight  of  your-grief  by  her  sweet 
words  of  resignation  : — "  Paul,"  she  says,  "  God 
has  taken  our  boy  !  " 

Other  weeks  roll  on.  Joys  are  still  left — great 
and  ripe  joys.  The  cottage  smiling  in  the  autumn 
sunshine  is  there :  the  birds  are  in  the  forest 
boughs :  Jamie  and  little  Carry  are  there ;  and 
she  who  is  -more  than  them  all,  is  cheerful,  and 
content.  Heaven  has  taught  us  that  the  brightest 
future  has  its  clouds ; — that  this  life  is  a  motley  of 
lights  and  shadows.  And  as  we  look  upon  the 
world  around  us,  and  upon  the  thousand  forms  of 
human  misery,  there  is  a  gladness  in  our  deep 
thanksgiving. 

A  year  goes  by  ;  but  it  leaves  no  added  shadow 
on  our  hearth-stone.  The  vines  clamber,  and  flour- 
ish •  the  oaks  are  winning  age  and  grandeur : 
little  Carry  is  blooming  into  the  pretty  coyness  of 
girlhood ;  and  Jamie,  with  his  dark  hair,  and 
flashing  eyes,  is  the  pride  of  his  mother. 

There  is  no  alloy  to  pleasure,  but  the  remem- 
brance of  poor  little  Paul.     And  even  that,  chas- 
tened as  it  is  with  years,  is  rather  a  grateful 
23* 


270  RKl-EKIES   OF  A   LA  CUE  LOU. 

rial  that,  our  life  is  not  all  here,  than  a  grief  that 
weighs  upon  our  hearts. 

Sometimes,  leaving  little  Cany  and  Jamie  to 
their  play,  we  wander  at  twilight  to  the  willow 
tree,  beneath  which  our  drowned  boy  sleeps 
calmly,  for  the  Great  Awaking.  It  is  a  Sunday,  in 
the  week-day  of  our  life,  to  linger  by  the  little 
grave, — to  hang  flowers  upon  the  head-stone,  and 
to  breathe  a  prayer  that  our  little  Paul  may  sleep 
well,  in  the  arms  of  Him  who  loveth  children  ! 

And  her  heart,  and  my  heart,  knit  together  by 
sorrow,  as  they  had  been  knit  by  joy — a  silver 
thread  mingled  with  the  gold — follow  the  dead 
one  to  the  Land  that  is  before  us  ;  until  at  last  we 
come  to  reckon  the  boy  as  living  in  the  new  home, 
which  when  this  is  old,  shall  be  ours  also.  And 
my  spirit,  speaking  to  his  spirit,  in  the  evening 
watches,  seems  to  say  joyfully — so  joyfully  that  the 
tears  half  choke  the  utterance — "  Paul,  my  boy,  we 
will  be  there  !  " 

And  the  mother,  turning  her  face  to  mine,  so 
that  I  see  the  moisture  in  her  eye,  and  catch  its 
heavenly  look,  whispers  softly — so  softly,  that  an 
angel  might  have  said  it, — "  Yes,  dear,  we  will  be 
THERE ! " 


The  night  had  now  come,  and  my  day  under 
the  oaks  was  ended.  But  a  crimson  belt  yet  lin- 
gered over  the  horizon,  though  the  stars  were  out. 


EVENING.  271 

A  line  of  shaggy  mist  lay  along  the  surface  of 
the  brook.  I  took  my  gun  from  beside  the  tree, 
and  my  shot-pouch  from  its  limb,  and  whistling 
for  Carlo — as  if  it  had  been  Tray — I  strolled  over 
the  bridge,  and  down  the  lane,  to  the  old  house 
under  the  elms. 

I  dreamed  pleasant  dreams  that  night ; 

for  I  dreamed  that  my  Reverie  was  real. 


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